Filing Cabinet
by ShadowWolf203027
Summary: Just some stories that should not be overlooked by anyone. They are fanfictions written by Skulblaka Fricai (i think thats how it was spelled.) Some are finished some are not.
1. Black On Blue

'Delay is the deadliest form of denial.'

___-C. Northcote Parkinson_

******Shruikan**__

___Despair _is all I can think as I wait impatiently for servants of ___his Majesty _to__piece together my armor. It is a dreadfully arduous task, requiring their skill as much as their endurance. Each onyx plate of metal clinks on perfectly, covering every black scale without break. My ivory-spiked tail soon disappears beneath the metallic sea of black, much to my chagrin. They are ignorant to the potency of a good blow from a tail, though I suppose I can sacrifice my spikes if it means the protection of my scales. Even my neck, broad and long, is encircled by the still heated armor. I stare down at my claws, flexing and retracting them experimentally.

The dozen or so servants began this long process several hours ago and now— ___finally_—the last pieces are maneuvered onto my head. One brave servant clutches the heavy iron almost protectively, lowering it to my bowed head reverently. Secured with a clap of metal, the helm-like piece crests my thick jaws, twin slits hooded over my eyes to allow me to see the servants tending to me. I raise my head arrogantly, though the gesture appears a halfhearted thing to the trained eye. The servants, however, are unaffected, instead bowing out of the room guardedly.

There are few things I can justify being grateful for. I cannot for my life, since it is controlled by one who deserves nothing of gratitude.

Still, in that moment I am immensely grateful for solitude. Silver tears coalesce at the corners of my eyes, and a dry sob chokes its way from my throat despite my wishes. Of course, fate cannot satisfy itself to torment me in mundane ways—it must rob me of my dignity as well. I growl, jaw tightening as I shake my head to clear the traitorous tears.

Dragons do ___not _cry.

Though, I muse dryly, I'm not a dragon.

At least, not anymore.

I juggle two personalities, split by image and nature. The Demon and the Coward. The first is the mindless, bloodthirsty monster that resides deep within my mind, reluctantly surfacing at times to assert control. As paralyzing as any true demon, it is a black poison that rots my heart and destroys my mind, never hurrying in its task. I may see weeks pass before the Demon strikes, and from thence am powerless until the nightmarish half of me departs.

And then there is the Coward, no better in mine or any's eyes. The Coward fears the demonic side, and seeks silence and solitude to hide any suspicion of its true nature. The Coward is fearful, and at many times driven to mimic the Demon out of worry for doing wrong.

Neither is a remarkably noble image to hold, and neither do I take satisfaction in bearing. The folk of my captor and King's empire view me as the first, and see only of me the first. I hear the wretched tales they spread, and I can only regret that I committed such vile acts.

But the Coward is the enabler, and thus the Demon is the mask which I cower beneath.

Sometimes I wish it were the other way—but I possess no Hero within me, no conscience to chastise and no partner to confide. I suppose it is in this absence of companionship that I have sought out ridiculous things to cling to, to cherish like no other.

A sudden shame overwhelms me, and I blush involuntarily. The reddish flush goes unnoticed as I am alone, though I still hasten to calm myself. No. I mustn't think like that.

But what else is there to fill the long, hard days which I endure? Certainly there is no merriment to brighten my spirits, no laughter to warm my voice. Only the memories of the Demon's doing to fill my thoughts, to cloud my mind in disgust and horror.

I remember it all too vividly, and for a time I simply stand there, in the empty chamber, and curse all Heavens and Hells out there, for that which they've never done. But who else am I to blame for slaughtering Riders by the dozens? Who to shoulder the burden of having torn dragons from the skies, as though they had no thought or feeling of their own? Who would ___dare_ take the blame for massacring the last of their kin?

___Me. _

My heart throbs in my chest and I groan low in anguish, shaking my wings as though to dispel the bad feelings. There is some bitter irony that it is the villain that prevails despite the odds—despite the logic that demands the hero succeed— and ___still _manages to crumble to justice. Remorse and shame ride on my shoulders, forever burdens upon my soul. For even though we ___won, _I lost everything I had.

We all lost that year.

Our casualties were varied—some more severe than others. Our battles were fierce, and we both tasted bitter victory and punishing defeat. Our lives were not unlike, and our deaths were not unlike either. Yet in the end, we were the ones to claim victory, yet defeat was a kindly thing to the others. For defeat granted death, and death, I know, must be better than this.

For there is no greater crime than destroying one's humanity.

Such a strange term—___humanity. _To immediately distinguish the civility, and vivacity, and spirit as ___human _is rather unfair. For in near all cases, the true beasts are found in humans.

Yet it is so.

I lurch forward suddenly, as though compelled to escape the Demon clawing eagerly at my mind, supplying my thoughts with dark things. I sigh heavily, tempted to simply relinquish control to that thoughtless, careless beast within me and allow it to deal with this. The Demon seems to snicker, as though a separate being entirely, enjoying my torment.

With a venomous snap of my teeth, I press back the Demon, though immediately I feel hollow and almost sickened. The brief vigor that enthused the idea suddenly vanishes, and with it departs my will to fight the recovered Demon.

'___Why do you torture yourself so? So easy it would be to simply stop worrying over it. What good does it do you? You still have to carry out such acts, and there is nothing that shall change that. Masochistic, you are, to enjoy such wallowing. Get up and walk, you fool. The King will be furious if you are late,'_ the voices says derisively.

___I care not for the tyrant, _I growl silently, though I continue forward despite such. __

Perhaps if I do, I won't have to bear the guilt of what will come.

___'Guilt will follow you so long as you tempt it,' _the Demon remarks. ___'You shame only yourself to worry over such things. You win, did you not? So why demean yourself so?'_

I decidedly ignore the voice, subtly allowing it ground anyway.

For in this world, I have no say. I cannot dictate when those who differ will finally allow these things to bring them to savage beings that hold nothing in consideration for their own survival beside ___kill the enemy. _I cannot bring myself to accept this to intervene, to end such a bloody massacre with a single, ___fatal_ blow to our enemy.

And I also cannot deny the lust that has finally overcome me in my eternal battle to suppress it. I may be a century her senior, but undeniably, I have fallen hopelessly and desperately in love with her.

* * *

******Saphira **

I am silent as I sit before a rustic tent, waiting, watching, listening to the heated running and working as men and women alike prepare themselves for battle.

Already, the dwarves have managed to outfit myself in a magnificent silver suit of armor. Somewhere, I know, Eragon is probably being outfitted as well, though I leave him to his own thoughts.

As it is, the solitude of mine are disturbing.

Everywhere, dwarves, humans, and even some elves, scurry about without the slightest of thought to what is to come. I, however, know better.

I cross my paws, staring out with an expression that looks calm, serene, even peaceful to the untrained eye. But within, I know, I have many silent tears left unshed.

When Iyro, the emerald dragon, declared that he would never assist any other and threw off his ties towards the riders, I was heartbroken.

Thorn had already perished the year before. A rare, draconic disease known as ___Sulph Arym _that is the human equivalent of fatal pneumonia had taken his life. And of course, the bitterest death of all was Glaedr's when he perished.

I sigh heavily; the world is cruel. Consequentially, the world is also wonderful.

Ironic that more-often-than-not it is the world who must stage the battles, yet never hold true blame.

I wonder now what I will do in this battle-to-come. I know the outcomes; the destruction or salvation of the world. I know the possibilities; that Galbatorix shall die or we shall. I also know the consequences; obliteration or restoration.

But they are merely the end points; at what cost will it come to reach them?

I dread to think about it.

The dragon race, I know, is doomed; I am the last.

Well, there is one other; but I do not speak of ___him. _

After all, ___he _destroyed the dragon race in the first instance, and it would be ___he _that would stand in our way to restore Alagaësia. Therefore, ___he _must be killed. __

I shift restlessly, buzzing with energy. I cannot fathom why I would possess any eagerness for such a terrible thing to come. Decades of perpetual war shall finally cease; one way or another.

There is a certain contentment at this; at least, there will be no more of this dreadful waiting. ___Saphira? _

Ah, Eragon has returned, now staring up at me expectantly, waiting for a response. I dip my head down and stare at him, impassivity shielding the dread within me. __

___Yes, Eragon? _I ask as pleasantly as I can muster. He frowns.

___What's wrong? _

The earnestness in his voice nearly makes me confess. He seems genuinely to care, which I know he does, and it very nearly shatters my heart's armor and allows the grief of Thorn's and Glaedr's death, Iyro's betrayal, and the possibility of killing ___Shruikan… _

For some strange reason, this seems to be the most troubling of my thoughts. It lingers unpleasantly, taunting me with questions. The most prevalent of these is 'Why kill him?' ___He's evil, _I snap unwittingly projecting this to Eragon. His brow furrows in confusion.

___What? _

I quickly hide the remainder of my thoughts. ___Nothing, _I instead reply. ___I'm fine. _

___Are you sure? _

The more he asks, the more I wish to tell him. 'Why kill him?' the question repeats. ___He's Galbatorix's dragon, _I counter, silently this time. 'Why kill him?' my conscience persists. ___He works for the Empire! _

And again: 'Why kill him?'

___Saphira? _

'Why kill him?'

I want to roar out my fury, my frustration, and my confusion.

'Why kill him?'

___Yes, Eragon. Now come, we have a battle to win, _I say confidently. He stares skeptically for a moment and for a childish second I fear he is not convinced. Then he nods in defeat.

___Alright. _He mounts and adjusts himself on my saddle, though I hardly notice him.

'Why kill him?' my conscience stubbornly asserts. ___He killed the dragons. _

'Not willingly,' the voice persists. ___He still did, _I rebut.

'Why kill him?' it continues. I unsuccessfully try and ignore it. ___He's heartless; he's cruel; he hates dragons. _

'Lies,' the voice admonishes. For some reason, I believe it.

'So why kill him?'

___I don't know, _I finally admit. And then, quietly, 'You love him.'

For a moment, a snappish remark is thick on my tongue, dying to be released, but the comment dies away. For some reason, I could neither accept nor deny it.

'Perhaps,' I concede. 'Perhaps.'

2

'See where your own energy wants to go, not where you think it should go. Do something because it feels right, not because it makes sense. Follow the spiritual impulse.'

******-**___Mary Hayes-Grieco_

******-Shruikan **

Building beneath my obsidian scales there is a power; an energy of epic proportions. Not that which dictates the simple motion of a leg or a wing; rather the untamed energy that determines the precise speed of each blink, the suaveness of a sly grin, the tightness of my wings, the throb of each heartbeat. It is not mere energy that propels these natural movements that we so chose; it is magic.

But within me, there is no magic.

Rather, there is darkness.

I cannot smile; only grin. I cannot laugh; only cackle. I cannot hum; only moan. And I cannot blink; only stare.

Dark magic. It is the replica energy that keeps myself alive; brutally forces my heart to beat, my legs to move, my wings to flap. Without energy, there is no life.

In the case of riders and dragons, the energy that is obtained for us to live is gained from the life force of our riders. When they perish, our magical ties are rejected, unable to force our heart to beat.

Dragons do not live without their riders.

So why have I, a traitor in all aspects, survived?

Simply because Galbatorix utilizes that dark material, that sole darkness continues to keep myself alive. I hate it passionately, wishing to destroy it if only to end my own life, but I cannot force it to stop; I cannot force my heart to stop beating, or my breath to stop coming.

In this sense, I am powerless.

I head the army; Galbatorix already perched regally on my back, seated as comfortably as one can be, grinning madly. I wish to wipe that arrogant grin from his lips; it drives me insane at how much he relishes this.

He thrives on my pain; he savors my suffering. I know because the more I am suffering, the greater my strength. Dark magic feeds off the passionate, deadly emotions of all living beings: hate, rage, sorrow, torment, rebellion, and lust. By torturing me, he strengthens me as well.

And my strength is his.

I am the source of this war; I am the cause of the suffering of hundreds. I do not bother to deny it; does one deny that they breathe?

Neither shall I deny this horrible part of my existence.

I am nothing else in their eyes; the eyes of all who see me. I am a monster, my onyx wings the devilish cape of a demon, waiting to sweep into the night and steal away all who I hate. My claws are written with blood, my lips are tainted with the screams of all whom have been tormented under my reign.

But the world shuns my torture; ignores my pain.

The inevitable battle approaches. To my back is the castle, a fortress of stone brimming with soldiers and weaponry unheard of. To my sides are thousands of soldiers, perfectly willing to die in this battle. To my front, there is the open plain of the Hadarac Desert, and far off in the distance, a gray sweep of dust that shows our enemy's frontline.

Shadows still play upon the world; even the sun has not risen from its rest. I wait in the silence that lingers before a fight, the tenseness that pervades before doom. But despite this lackluster world that most see, I see differently.

For I see in red; I hear in blue; I weep in silver; I hum in gold; I laugh in green; I stride in purple; I soar in white; and I live in black.

Forever I am a rainbow. A euphoric combination of wonderful sensations I possess; all of which I never truly feel. For the world is a simple thing: black, and white.

The sun shines with the white brilliance of the moon, yet the dark cloak of night is just as perceptive and powerful. And while most creatures bleed crimson, and die in a gray pallor, I am not like them.

For I bleed blue, and will forever die black.

******-Saphira **

I feel that at any moment my scales will run off my hide in anticipation of the battle to come. I am thrilled with energy, fidgeting restlessly, breath swelling in my chest and offering my strength. My heart pounds heavily, infusing myself with power and allowing me to connect with my flow of magic. Ah yes, that wonderful magic, usually unattainable, flourished in this rush of energy, at my disposal if the need arises.

___Calm down, _I reprimand myself. ___Battle will come; just relax. _

My muscles are tense; I allow them to relax with a shiver. I sigh breathlessly. ___Excited, or nervous? _Eragon asks.

___Excited mostly, _I respond. It's strange, the amount of power I feel. ___Nervous, maybe. _

Battle awaits; the Hadarac looms before our army like a waiting enemy, taunting us in its proximity yet challenging us to dare make the first step. I know that in that dark land of Uru'baen, there waits an army of thousands.

And Shruikan.

___Stop thinking about him! _I growl. 'Ah, but why not? You ___are _going to kill him; why not think about him?' A pity that conscience wasn't a real thing; I'd have squashed it by now.

'I see. You're afraid to speak of him.'

___I am not! _I snarl. Why would I fear speaking of him? I don't fear speaking of him.

I quickly review my reasons for disliking him in my mind; he's evil, he's heartless, he's a murderer, a traitor, and a monster. I had to kill him.

'Of course you do. So you are just going to kill him and doom your race?'

___Yes. No. Gah, go away, _I growl.

'Doom the dragons; destroy your kind? Would you do that?'

___I don't have a choice! _I snap.

'Oh, but you do.'

My gosh, I'm talking to myself.

___Eragon? _I ask, mostly to distract myself. My wings itch with a buzzing energy, legs tingling in excitement. ___Yes? _

Oh great, I remember. What to say…

___How are you? _

A shame that dragons have claws instead of hands; I surely would slap my head at the moment otherwise. Eragon raises an eyebrow.

___Fine… _he replies, somewhat dazed by the unexpected casualness. ___Are you okay? _There's a sneaking suspicion in his voice that irritates me.

___Yes, _I answer, almost angrily. He withdraws; I let him. Obviously, our conversation wasn't going anywhere anyway. I feel his consciousness buzzing in the back of my mind, eternally alerting me to his presence.

I glance out at the horizon; still dark, not even the slightest shadow of light to graze its edge. The Varden's army is clad in gray and silver armor, some mounted on horses while others wield bows and arrows. Most, however, handle traditional weapons: daggers, swords, axes, hammers, rapiers, and more. Humans, elves, and dwarves mix silently, each bearing respective insignias; the Varden's clear upon their shields and chest plates as well. __

I look down at my forelegs, seeing the dimmed silver armor on them, watching as they move perfectly in synch with each movement. I sigh; I wish the armor wasn't necessary. I prefer my own scales to these artificial ones.

I am centered in the front lines, ready to take flight at the instant we begin. I gently knead the dry soil beneath my claws; shifting slightly.

I again stare up at the gray sky, tinged lightly with the first shadows of dawn. It is not gray and black to me, however.

My sapphire eyes illuminate the world in a cerulean haze, etching deep black shadows and lines in the hidden night. Black and blue; a cool combination.

A war horn sounds, low and droning in its sad notes. I listen keenly, my mind elsewhere as I thrust out my wings. Energy hums in my veins, dying to be released. It prickles at my conscious, pestering me with the urge to fly. But I must content myself to march forward, not fly, for if I fly, I become a target for ___him. _

'And is that so bad?' my conscious teases. ___Oh shut up, _I growl.

3

'Don't pray for lighter burdens, but stronger backs.'

-___Anonymous_

******-Shruikan **

Wind is ___usually_ calming; wind is ___usually_ welcome on a dry day; wind is ___usually_ something I take pleasure in.

But wind, today, is torturing.

For it sneaks under my scales and fills my nostrils with that lovely, intoxicating scent that I can only just detect. It hovers before me, so sensitive am I to the smell that I am powerless to it, barely able to stand as cloudy lust fogs my senses.

Dragoness.

With each gentle gust it further torments me, enticing me forward and forcing my claws to dig deep into the soil to prevent myself from doing such. I cannot simply waltz forward and follow that trail, for I know where it leads. And if I follow that path, death will come for certain. Another soft breeze drifts over me and I rumble pleasantly, undetected to the remaining army yet perfectly clear to a dragon. I sniff the air, searching for it, unable to capture it forever and remember it, heart demanding more. But the wind has drifted away, past my senses and stealing with it the temptation.

I first feel dismay at the wonderful aroma's absence, then foolishness for being so keen and interested in it. I am not a love-struck hatchling; I should better control myself.

Never mind. I am.

Even war cannot truly separate the truth from me, despite my attempts to hide it. I don't even know her name, but I do know one thing: I've fallen for her.

Initially, this had been a grave weakness, for Galbatorix would twist my thoughts and make me believe that if I loved her it would be to her demise. So I locked my heart away, forcing impassivity to overcome desire and a blank stare to mask the fierce glare in my gaze. But I never stopped thinking of her.

It was the twelfth eve of the tenth month when I received the news: the sapphire egg, containing the sole female dragon, had been reclaimed by the Varden.

Oh my ecstasy at such news that she had escaped the torments that I endured. I can bear the whip, tolerate the brand, and drink the poison if it means that at least she has the opportunity to live away from it. For the next six months, Galbatorix was absolutely livid, taking every opportunity to vent his outrage upon me. I cannot even begin to tell you the number of times he branded, whipped, broke, starved, and beat me. My front paws had been broken seven times before I lost count; I'm blind in my right eye from the number of poisonings that affect my sight. My wings have been repaired so much that they are nothing but flimsy scar tissue connected by magic. My teeth are jagged from the raged outbursts I would go into; tearing at the impenetrable metal of my cage and ruining them.

But I would endure all and more if it meant that she had the opportunity to live freely.

And so began my fantasies. Those of sitting in a damp, cold dungeon late at night, wistfully dreaming of her somehow returning and accepting a monster like me. Those of the dragons returning to the world and for once overthrowing the blasted king, freeing me from his brutality. And those of the dragoness finding happiness, at least if not with me, then with the other males that still rested in those eggs.

I suppose that in some cruel, twisted sense, I've earned this. I have wrought the greatest crime this world has ever known. And so, I am not allowed to love her. It is not my right anymore. Nothing is.

Even when I shivered in that lonely dungeon, I had never forgotten about her. I suppose that I lived simply with the idea that maybe, just maybe, I could one day meet her. To see her face ___just once _and then I would be content.

But soon my liking escalated, until I had decided that I wouldn't be content to just watch her from afar. I ___had _to meet her. For what reason exactly, I knew naught, and still do not know, but I knew that I refused to die without at least seeing her.

And then the red egg hatched, and my heart dropped.

He was a strong little hatchling, and he had great potential, but then Galbatorix took it as his right to force him to grow. It is an awful process, overpowering the pure magic within a dragon with dark magic and then forcing one's body to develop unnaturally. I secretly visited the hatchling when I could, offering his despairing spirit the hope that if he endured long enough, he would be freed of this king and then he could meet the sapphire dragoness and be her mate.

So alone in my dungeon I waited, appeasing to the young dragon's interest by telling him all I knew of the dragons before the Fall. He had a chance with her, even if I didn't, and that brought both satisfaction and sorrow.

And then I received a terrible blow one day: Thorn had died.

Galbatorix had informed me himself, without the slightest hint of regret or sadness in his expression or voice. 'Thorn's dead,' he had said.

I had shamelessly cried, sitting in my dungeon, curled up slightly, burying my head in my paws and shaking slightly with sobs. Not him, I had thought. Anyone but him… I had grown fond of the hatchling; he had grown up quite handsome as well. But now he was gone, and I already knew what had become of the green egg.

So I was alone.

A sudden, gentle flush of wind lingered on my face, reminding me in a most pleasant manner that I was not alone. It smelled pure and sweet, dragon-like and natural.

And if nothing else were to have happened, if the world were to have stopped at that day, I would've been satisfied.

******-Saphira **

The earth purrs gently beneath my feet, long and slow rumbles that reflect off my claws and portray a simple message: happiness.

I hum quietly in response, forgetting for a blissful moment of what could make such a sound. My own soothing vibrations combine with the soft ones in the ground perfectly, melding together and relaxing the tenseness in my scales. A slow shiver works down my spine and I sigh softly. Nothing but a dragon purr to soothe you. Wait a second… oh no…

'Cute,' my conscience comments. My cheeks redden slightly and I immediately stop humming, stiffening. ___Not the time, _I growl.

'And why not? A moment ago you seemed quite happy.'

___Yeah, well, go away. _

'Why do you deny that you enjoyed that?'

___Because I didn't, _I lie.

'Lying to your own conscience,' it says melodramatically. I roll my eyes, glad that Eragon is still blocked from my conscious.

___I am not, _I finally snap. __

'Suit yourself; but I ___know_ that you enjoyed that.' Finally, I felt that annoying sense retreat, leaving me alone. I gaze out at the distant army once more, thoughtful in my silence.

I ___had _enjoyed it. Which somewhat disturbed me. He was my enemy; I couldn't just allow my guard to be let down.

'He's just a dragon,' my conscience counters readily. I sigh. ___Well, 'just a dragon' doesn't matter. _

'Oh doesn't it?'

Bloody conscience.

___Yes, it doesn't. _

'We'll see,' the voice comments before fading.

I snort. But when I breathe in, my argument is lost.

The masculine scent of dragon wafts towards me, a sense of warmth and security enveloping me in that simple breath. So simple, so natural, so good. My senses are instantly alert, frozen stiff with surprise. The smell is hardly detectable, but it's still there, and still I can feel it. And even though it is faint, I still feel as though he's standing right before me.

I remember, several years back, battling with Thorn. And despite the ferocity with which we seemed to fight, curiosity and even joy had mingled in when sighting each other. Secretly, I knew Thorn suffered as he dealt me a blow, as I hurt whenever I retaliated. Being in such close proximity was fascinating and alluring, torturing us both in our separation. I could clearly remember how surprising, then comforting, it was to actually be so close to him, to hear his powerful roars and breathe in his musky scent. It was a bitter sweetness, so close yet impossibly far.

I sometimes mused that there was a dragon like he, brave and strong, waiting for me when I waited outside of the cities as Eragon and I traveled with Brom. It was a comforting idea, that I was not alone and that there were others, but it was also saddening that I could not meet them. Yet.

All I knew of the dragons at the time was that there were two remaining eggs and a single adult: Shruikan. Of course, Shruikan was out of the question; he was Galbatorix's pet dragon. But equally untouchable were those two eggs.

For months I silently pondered what would become of my brethren, when finally the world came crashing down upon us.

Thorn had hatched. And was, like Shruikan, Galbatorix's slave.

Accepting that simple reality was like trying to accept the doom of eternal loneliness; impossible. So I continued to hope, to wishfully think that the other egg would hatch and that he and I could perhaps mate.

But Iyro was a traitor, for he cast off his magic and instead adopted the ways of the dark arts. How he did such, I still do not know, but he disappeared less than a day after his hatching.

My options were now set; Shruikan or Thorn. Granted, I did have the option to refuse both. But that might as well not have been an option at all.

But Thorn… strangely, I grew attached to that rebellious red dragon. He and Murtagh had escaped from Galbatorix and hidden out in the Spine, protecting themselves with the natural wards instilled in the mountains that repelled the king's magic. Occasionally, Thorn would make lone journeys to visit myself in Surda, risking capture and death, if only for a simple hello. I would greet him pleasantly enough, and, despite my lack of affection, he took every word seriously and his smile broadened at the slightest sign of satisfaction that I gave him. Whenever he left, his eyes glistened with bittersweet departure, promising to return soon.

For six years, he returned once every couple of months, though one year his flights grew less frequent and he seemed wearied and tired every time. The smile was always broad on his face whenever I met him, despite the threats the Varden placed if he did anything to harm them. Thorn never broke any of their rules and was quite civil and good-natured. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn he had never served Galbatorix.

But that particular winter, when he returned to me, he was so weak that his wings quivered and his legs shook as he landed, head resting on the ground but not bothering to rise. I, at first, allowed him to rest there alone, but after the third night, I visited him, concerned, and realized that he didn't even have the strength to lift his head. When he informed me that he was indeed ill, I grew worried, yet I let it slip by, thinking he would be well in a few days.

He died that night.

Guilt nearly destroyed me.

It was that day that I realized that I truly had loved him; that I mourned his death as freely as I would a lover's; that I would forever feel the ache of his absence. Though it was never beyond tentative acceptance, I knew that I would miss his smile and his casual discussions of anything and everything.

And now, my heart aching in my chest, I sniff, looking up to the horizon.

I smell dragon. Shruikan. I allow a brief smile to touch my lips; perhaps, I say to none in particular.

'Perhaps,' my conscience echoes.

And for once, I agree.

4

'There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills.'

-___Buddha_

******- Shruikan **

A silver drop slips off one of my front fangs, landing placidly on my jaw line. Instinctively, my forked tongue darts out and laps up the liquid. I wince as it burns the smooth surface of my tongue.

___Akmrad Azyr. _

Venom Burn.

Though harmless to me, the substance is potent for dragons if it gets in the bloodstream. Simple drops will not harm me, aside from the momentary discomfort, but even one bite from several dozen teeth would be fatal.

I am unpleasantly reminded of ___why _I have poison dripping off my fangs.

And more importantly, who will be the recipient of it.

Now ___that _hurts far more than any toxic drop this substance leaks on my tongue.

_'__She is no longer of use to us,' Galbatorix snaps, glaring at myself. 'And therefore she must die.' _

___But Galbatorix… I try to interrupt. He waves it off. _

_'__You have no choice in the matter, Shruikan. None at all.' _

___I won't kill her! I say vehemently. He chuckles darkly. _

_'__Oh, won't you?' _

___And I can do nothing but hang my head and glance to the side, defeated. _******I'll try, **___I concede. _

_'__And you'd best succeed,' he growls. I cowardly assume silence, not daring utter rebut._

I really am a coward; not even fighting when the poison was coated on my fangs, still numb from the thought of killing ___her. _

The poison slowly ebbs at my teeth, begging me to plunge them into flesh.

A desire I most certainly refused to fulfill.

I truly must be some hellish creature for my fangs to bleed poison.

A mirthless laugh escapes me.

___I suppose, _I muse, watching the glowering embers of the sun's rays ebb at the horizon, ___that the world has a twisted sense of humor. _

Another drop escapes my fangs, this time landing on the dry, weathered earth. Glancing down, I see that it is not silver, but a deathly gray, leeching the life out of even the soil. I shiver.

I would sooner inject myself with it then let one speck get on her.

"My King," a soldier suddenly comments from my right side. I growl low, lip curling back in a snarl. I ___hate _it when they do that. It is one thing if I can see them; but my sight is ruined in my right eye, beyond any repair, magical or not. And so it is frustrating to be startled by even a mere soldier. I am certain they have no idea of my disability, and I know Galbatorix doesn't care. "When do we begin?" he asks.

I stare, unblinking at him, my gaze rather bored. Humans all look the same. A younger man, perhaps late twenties, with dark russet hair stands before me, seeming unsettled before my gaze. I resist the urge to smirk. Fear is simply another form of respect.

I am king in this aspect.

"Soon," Galbatorix replies tonelessly. That complete impassivity that seems to make up his entirety is plain in his voice; the cooled venom hidden.

The soldier stands dumbly before us, staring up at me like an idiot. For a moment, I am completely still. Tired of his expectant gaze, I bare my dripping fangs with a hiss. Understanding ___that _message, the soldier skitters away nervously, my irritated growls following.

Idiot.

I see a lone hawk cry out from above, circling around and glaring down with onyx eyes. I snort, craning my neck back to stare at the man upon my back. ___Begin now or begin never, _I say coolly. ___This waiting is intolerable. _

It is true. The longer I wait, the more time I have to think, and the more time I have to think, the more time I have to regret. Regret leads to hesitation and hesitation leads to failure. Which, in truth, I would most happily except considering what it would mean to succeed.

___I agree, _Galbatorix actually says. I stare at him with the same, cold gaze, yet curious inside. He ___agrees? _Now that's a first… ___But we for us to be successful, we must let them react first. _

I fight a scowl. Strategy is the last thing I need. It means success in most cases. And success means Saphira's death. I nearly shiver.

___Why wait, though? If we strike first, we gain the advantage, _I lie. Hopefully, I sound more convincing than desperate. For a moment, there's a contemplating gleam in his eye, a spark of hope for myself, before it is banished and replaced by stony indifference.

___We wait, _he says sternly, redirecting his focus to the horizon, clearly not having any rebut I might have said.

I nod once, very slightly, and turn to face forward again. The sun shimmers on the horizon, dying the sky in a hazy orange. The sun exists without worry; lives on the fiery passion of the world. It doesn't have fears or loves. It just rises and falls. How simplicity is tempting to me.

A drop of poison drips off my fangs.

But even it cannot compare with the dreadful, awful toxin that is doom that continues to swell inside me, suffocating hope and smothering my will.

Poison of the body cannot compare to poison of the mind.

******- Saphira**

___Tell me, _Eragon asks suddenly, ___why Thorn died. _

I tense involuntarily, cursing my carelessness that allowed that particular thought to escape. ___I already told you, _I reply, almost snappishly. He cocks his head.

___No you didn't, _he counters. Darn boy.

'What? Can you not even tell your rider of such matters?' my conscience teases. I growl, claws tightening on the earth. ___Stay out of it, _I snarl.

'Why?' that annoying voice counters. ___Because it is none of your business! _I roar.

Eragon visibly recoils from the sudden wave of aggression that I momentarily let flush over him before quickly suppressing it. ___S—Saphira? _he asks, actually stuttering after such rage.

___I… sorry, _I say meekly.

'So will you tell him now?' my conscience asks. I consider arguing with it before giving up. I stare out at the horizon, still grayish, though now tinged with orange. With a heavy, calming sigh, I slowly force myself to speak.

___It's complicated, _I begin hesitantly. He opens his mouth to rebut when I cut him off. ___And easier to show you than try and explain, _I finish. For a moment, he is silent. Then, he nods.

___Show me. _

With a reluctant sigh, I delve back into the past, of one cold, winter morning in Surda…

___A rumbling series of grinding coughs draw my attention as I patrol the Varden's ground, walking amongst the tents with regal calmness. I slowly approach the noise, rounding a corner and surprised to find a crimson mass sprawled on the dry, cracked surface. It is bitterly cold for most, though for I it is merely cool, brushing over my scales with a wisp of snow. _

_'__Why, hello Saphira,' a calm, light voice asks. I glance up and look at the half-open ruby eyes of Thorn. He smiles weakly. 'How are you?' he says politely. _

_'__Fine,' I say cautiously, taking a tentative step forward. He smiles broadly, a flash of ivory teeth peaking out beneath his lip. _

_'__Glad to hear it,' he replies cheerily. 'I've wondered-' _

___He abruptly starts coughing again, racking his frame for several long moments. I stare at him, a hint of worry in my eyes, and wait for it to subside. Eventually, the fit dies down and he gazes up at me with that same happy look, as though nothing happened. 'How you've been,' he finishes, as though never interrupted. _

_'__Thorn, are you well?' I ask, concerned. He shrugs a shoulder. _

_'__Well enough,' he answers cryptically. For a moment, I gaze at him, unconvinced, before nodding slightly. _

_'__Really, I'm fine,' he insists at my silence. _

_'__Alright,' I concede. _

_'__How is Eragon?' he asks pleasantly, changing the topic. _

_'__Worried,' I reply truthfully. 'And rather anxious. But well enough.' Thorn nods slightly. _

_'__That's good. Murtagh's been the same.' _

_'__Where is he?' _

___He shrugs a shoulder wearily. _

_'__Southern parts of the Spine, if I'm not mistaken.' I nod. _

_'__How have you been?' _

_'__Fine,' he replies. 'It was a bit rough getting down here – the winds were rather difficult – but I found a way.' _

___I nod again. The winds had been strong over the past couple of days. _

_'__Care to join me for a quick meal?' I ask, surprising myself. He smiles sincerely yet makes no move to rise. _

_'__I'm good,' he replies. 'But thanks for the offer.' _

_'__You're welcome.' _

___For several moments, we are silent, watching as members of the Varden scuttle about, occasionally regarding Thorn with gazes of contempt and distaste. _

___Thorn coughs again, this time harsher. He spits out a globule of blood and eventually stops. I frown and ask him again, 'Are you sure you are fine?' _

_'__Absolutely,' he replies confidently, though I can sense the slightest hint of weakness in it. Deciding it best not to argue, I dismiss myself and leave. _

_'__Thorn, what's wrong?' I ask seriously upon our next meeting, disconcerted that he hadn't moved nor eaten since the previous day. He coughs for several moments before responding. _

_'__I'm fine,' he says, voice betraying him, rasping unnaturally. _

_'__No you're not,' I counter. 'Thorn, what is wrong?' I ask firmly. He shrugs a shoulder wearily. _

_'__A cold, nothing more,' he replies coolly. _

_'__Dragons don't get colds,' I counter. _

_'__Perhaps not,' he concedes calmly. 'But I assure you, I am fine.' _

_"__Saphira, Thorn wants you," Eragon informs me, returning from whatever task he had been doing. I nod and make my way to his spot, shocked to see him quivering and his mouth partially open, chest weakly heaving and eyes half-closed. _

_'__Thorn,' I say softly, cautiously approaching. _

_'__Stop,' he gasps. I obey hesitantly. He raises his head slowly, shakily. 'Don't come closer,' he says quietly. _

_'__Thorn, what has happened?' I demand. _

_'__I…' he pauses. His head drops to the ground and he mutters, 'I'm sick.' I make a move to approach. 'Stay back!' he snaps fiercely. Halted by his ferocity, I listen, frozen, as he continues. 'I don't—' he coughs once '—want you to get sick, Saphira. Stay back and I'll explain.' I oblige, my worry increasing with each moment. With a shaky breath, he continues, 'Have you ever heard of Sulph Arym?' he asks. _

___My heart plummets. Glaedr had indeed informed me of the draconic disease. It was always fatal, and no cure was available. Magic was useless and the disease was highly contagious. 'I have,' I answer, voice shaking with dread. It can't be… _

_'__I've fallen ill with it,' he continues quietly. _

_'__Does Murtagh know?' I ask softly. He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, eyes glistening with tears. _

_'__No,' he responds quietly. 'But I did tell him not to worry if I don't return.' My own eyes glisten with tears. _

_'__Thorn, there has to be something,' I begin, but he cuts me off. _

_'__There is nothing you can do. And don't attempt to; I would never forgive myself if you were to die as well.' My heart throbbed with despair. He'd accepted that he would die. I barely suppress a choked sob. 'There has to be something…' I again plead. He shakes his head slowly. _

_'__Saphira, I don't want you to try and save me; you will only harm yourself and Eragon. Stay away from me, and don't return until morning.' _

_'__Thorn—' _

_'__Go!' he bellows, a sob escaping him. _

___I turn around and stagger off, tears trailing down my cheeks. _

___The next morning, I return to find him… _

___Dead. _

"No!" Eragon cries aloud, tears dampening both our cheeks. I sniff and shake my head to clear the memory.

___It has come to be, Eragon, _I calm, reassuring myself as well. ___And neither you nor I can change that. _

___I'm so sorry, _he replies shakily. I nod slightly.

___I am too. _

Poison had destroyed Thorn. A poison even worse eats away at my heart.

Despair.

5

'Deep in my heart I'm concealing things that I'm longing to say. Scared to confess what I'm feeling - frightened you'll slip away.'

-___Madonna_

******-Shruikan**

This is the march across the desert; the march to begin the war; the march to end ___all _wars.

One way, or another.

It began with a bellow of a war horn, issued solely on Galbatorix's command, and then with the shuffling and finally moving of thousands of soldiers.

My heart and my brain have forever warred on the control of my body, both locked in fierce combat that renders any decision I make split with indecision. In this instance, my heart screams that I stand my ground, while my brain powerlessly obeys the dark magic's orders and forces my feet to move. Slowly at first, still stiffly resistant by my own desire, the weakness is pressed back and my claws pad forward in eerie unison to the throb of marching feet. ___Coward, monster, demon, _my heart accuses in disapproval.

___I know, _I agree, defeated. ___I know. _

Knowledge is powerful and painful. Ignorance is blinding and blissful. The fine line dividing the two is hard to determine exactly, yet ever-present in determining one's success and happiness. In many issues, I am wealthy, holding vast caverns of hidden memories that secure a broad intelligence. In several issues, I am lost, trapped in a black wave of confusion that smothers my thoughts with blank mystification.

My obsidian head is raised with regality that is admirable, black armor shadowed by the hints of light brimming on the rising sun. My glowering orange eyes bespeak a challenge of their own, daring any and all to defy my authority that is silently ruling. My claws soundlessly hit the dry sand as dirt shifts to dunes and the ground becomes noticeably softer and hotter. My chest is an immense plane of onyx, swelling powerfully with each of my solemn breaths, sinking to reveal its snake-like sleekness.

I am seen in my own cowardly follower's eyes as a treacherous devil that will kill them the instant I suspect insubordination, or perhaps out of pure, unadulterated bloodlust that I seemingly possess. I am seen as a demon that has risen from the underworld to deal fire and rage upon the earth, leaving trails of crimson in my path. I am seen as an honorary assassin, head and chief of all the most murderous crimes and severest of punishments. I am seen as nothing more than the black scales on my back and the orange fire in my eyes.

___Nothing more, never anything more, _my brain and heart hum in self-pitying harmony. My foot lands with a dull thud of resignation to the task before myself, a sigh escaping me.

Evil corrupts the strongest, the bravest, and the most determined of souls with a cloak of darkness, attached upon oneself like an unbreakable chain, locked on a future of self-destruct and the destruction of others. Galbatorix is evil; I have seen it, I have experienced it, I have heard of it. I, on the other hand, am not. I do not savor the death and pain of others; I do not prolong their suffering for my own pleasure. I follow his orders obediently, committing vile, unenviable tasks in the process. I listen to his complaints and rants, tolerate his cruelty, and solemnly accept his authority.

Perhaps it is in the act of nothing that we create greater harm than if we commit evil itself.

For acting is only part of the crime; witnessing is another, and tolerating is the final piece.

I am guilty of all three.

Smoldering in my chest there is a glowing fire, pressing forth and encouraging me that today is a day of renewal; today is a day of opportunity. I know the very real possibility of my own death; this is fine. Life has not been pleasurable and certainly death seems a reprieve from this despicable war.

___Perhaps, _I muse on some twisted level, ___I will live forever, suffer this forever… _

For some strange reason, this terrifies me.

If the Varden do not succeed, I know, then certain obliteration of their group will be enacted. Galbatorix may be clever in his plots, but, like any egotistical tyrant, insists upon relating his plans to ___someone_.

Lucky me.

Well, his plan consisted of several, simple factors. Tempt the Varden into an outright war – simple – and kill Saphira. Killing her was the key to the success. ___Dragons, _he had said, ___were no longer necessary. _

I still pondered this statement. 'No longer necessary'? Shockingly, I had my doubts about such.

___Doubt all you want, _Galbatorix suddenly says, surprising myself, ___but it has come to be. _

___What? _I ask, curious. How can he know something I do not?

___Dragons are a dying race, Shruikan, _he continues ominously, ___their time has, undoubtedly, come. _

___Lies, _I retort vehemently. Dragons will ___never _die out. Never. Sooner will the sun cease to rise and the earth crumble to dust before dragons vanish.

___Oh no, not lies. Never _lies. ___When my dragon was killed, Shruikan, I realized the inevitable truth of dragons; they would go extinct. Do you even know what that means? _He torments me with his reprimands.

___Yes, _I snap. ___I know. But you are just going to destroy any hope? _

___Oh come on. What hope? That dragoness would rather die than be your mate, anyway. That blasted dragon Glaedr died long back and Thorn died months ago. _

___I know, _I growl, weaker this time.

___And it was child's play to cast a spell upon Iyro that would kill him in a week's time. _

___No, _I breathe in horror. Iyro had been murdered…

___Oh yes. It was simplicity, really, to send him away with a little dark magic and then watch as his heart slowly stopped beating… _

___Monster! _I roar accusingly. He chuckles darkly. Every fiber of my being is burning, seething, crying out in outrage and ___demanding _that I do ___something. _

I struggle with the internal darkness that prevents me from such, barely suppressing it. I mustn't lose my control now; not now. He doesn't reply, deeming it unnecessary.

I glare forward, feet landing harshly on the ground. I would kill him sooner than bear him if at all possible, but dark magic is powerful and even fighting it is exhausting. With an outraged snarl, crossed between a whimper and a roar, I throw my head to the side and snap my teeth.

___You'll kill the dragon, _I snarl, ___over my dead body_.

___That can be arranged, _he replies ominously.

Threats are lost on the fearless.

-******Saphira **

They're marching.

Inevitably, the time has come to challenge destiny for the true path of fate and see to it that we do not fail.

I stare out at their army with impassivity. It seems that doom and hope vie to torment us as they agonizingly slowly approach, cautiously inching forward across the great plain. Armor shuffles, swords slid with the tell-tale hiss as they exit their sheathes, grunts and growls present as the army readies itself. Perhaps a league away, there stands Shruikan, in all his black armor and dark glory.

I admire the way his claws flex and tense as they hit the earth, perfect harmony with each movement of his large, surprisingly thin form. His broad muscles stand out on his shoulders, back, and legs, even from such a distance, and his eyes glower forward with keen determination. Though, past the iron hard ferocity on the surface, I can see the profound sadness penetrate their gaze.

'Ah, dragon love,' my conscience purrs delightedly. I immediately realize what I had been doing and blush slightly.

___I really hate you, _I mutter silently.

"Saphira, Eragon," a voice calls, and I turn my head slightly to see Nasuada approach. Despite the twenty years that had passed, she still looks as young and strong as ever. Her skin is just as dark and her posture just as regal. Eragon says something of a greeting, though I concentrate on the woman's face as she frowns and slowly speaks. "It seems that Galbatorix plans on attacking directly. Avoid direct contact for as long as possible and keep your spell-casters close."

I steal a quick glance at the elves scattered throughout the army, noting the ones bearing a small indigo flame upon their shields or armor. The spell-casters.

"Also," Nasuada continues, "don't use magic unless absolutely necessary. Conserve your strength."

"We shall," Eragon responds for us, though I can sense his unease as my own. A direct attack shall prove fatal for us both if we do not somehow distract Galbatorix and Shruikan so that we might kill them. We had, over the past month, contemplated the necessary tactics for killing them and had come to the conclusion that ideally he would immediately take flight and we could attack him from below. Unfortunately, Galbatorix has, obviously, anticipated such and chosen to instead strike us in the most powerful way possible: directly.

I resist a shiver of apprehension as I gaze back at the black dragon steadily approaching. In a match of strength, there is no contest between us.

I gaze back at Eragon, who seems equally unnerved by such.

Rumor had spread across the Empire that Galbatorix had formally declared that he would not hesitate to kill myself and Eragon. At first, I had dismissed such an idea; after all, had it not been Galbatorix's only intention these past hundred years to rebuild the dragons? And yet, now, he had openly chosen the path that clearly showed his true intentions.

'Strange,' my conscience comments nonchalantly. I glare ahead.

___Go away. _

'You know,' the voice persists, 'I think this has ___way _more to do with you liking Shruikan than possibly being killed by him.'

___I am—_

"Thank you, milady," Eragon acknowledges politely, interrupting my counterstatement. I growl slightly.

'And of course, that would mean that you couldn't kill Galbatorix, which would create even more problems…'

___Shut up, _I snap.

___Pardon? _Eragon asks me silently.

'Nice.'

___Nothing, _I answer, snarling slightly.

'Very convincing.'

___Did you catch any of that? _Eragon inquires.

___What? _I ask foolishly before considering. __

Eragon sighs and notes, ___Nasuada thinks that we shouldn't fly until Shruikan does. _

___And if he doesn't? _

___It's Shruikan; he'll fly… _Eragon says. I admit silently that I agree.

___All right, _I concede. Eragon retreats slightly from my mind. I glance forward and notice that the army still approaches, growing closer with each moment.

___Oh Shruikan, _I sigh in the silent corners of my mind, refusing to let my conscience hear, ___why must you be our enemy? _

For some reason, I almost don't want to find out. Rather, the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I won't have to kill him is comforting.

I raise my head to the heavens, seeking some consolation, some hope, some tendril of light to provide the slimmest chance of success. I see none and, despairingly, glance back down at my claws, shuffling tensely. ___Must it be this way? _I ask none in particular.

___Must it be where I must choose my kind's fate? _

A soft breeze brushes my shoulder, almost sympathetically. I swing my head to my left and notice the archers readying their arrows, hands clasping shields and swords, and hammers rising. Before me, I see the army less than a league away, getting closer and closer. This is the fate that I have inevitably accepted. This is the fate that I must bear despite all hardships it comes with.

Eragon draws ___Naegling, _Oromis's former sword, from its sheath. The golden blade catches the sluggish light magnificently, glinting and reflecting regally. I nod slightly in approval and return my gaze forward.

A single drum throbs low and the Varden's army tentatively marches forward, cautiously rising to meet our opponents as they near at a confident, steady pace. My feet pad beneath me as I march; the sole hope of the Varden, the last chance of the dragons.

But even this, I realize, will not matter unless Shruikan survives as well. For if he dies, there is no hope.

Amazing how your enemy becomes your ally so simply.

But even so, I cannot stop the inevitable; the confrontation that must take place. For he bears the king that we must kill, or that we must fall to. But something, a strange pull on my heart, prevents me from convincing myself that to do such, Shruikan must die as well. I cannot accept it, I realize in something between horror and amusement, because I cannot begin to think of killing him.

I think I just might like that black dragon.

And it is this that terrifies me.

6

'Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.'

-___Mark Twain_

******Shruikan **

There is ___nothing_ more irritating than temptation.

Correction - there is ___something_. It is when that temptation is held - barely a breath's wisp away - so close, yet so ___utterly_ unattainable. If I simply gave into my temptation and leapt into the air at this very moment, I would be struck down within seconds.

There is no denying it when I glance at ___his_ accursed mind. ___He_ would not protect me. ___He_ would not even ___attempt_ to protect me. I am merely a distraction, a valuable yet vexing piece in his dark, intricate puzzle. Like a master glancing indecisively between two pawns, judging which is better to sacrifice, he considers me and ___her_ nothing but disposable, worthless elements of this war. Things that he can commandeer with the utmost arrogance.

___Arrogance_. No single object or phrase can truly define it. Its meaning is shrouded by other dark emotions, yet perfectly clear to those who look for it. That sly smile, that cocky grin, that rude dismissal, that utter lack of fear, that ___smugness_; it's all ___right_ there. I both despise and embrace that natural feeling of total ___supremacy_; casting it off like an unwanted title yet also giving in to that...

___Temptation_.

I hiss at the word, glaring up at the sky with anguished eyes. ___Why_ can't I ___ever_ just ___die_? ___Why_ must I have to ___think_ and ___breathe_ and ___know_ of these decisions? Can not I be granted the ___slightest_ of mercies?

Another strange term. ___Mercy_. I am no stranger to it; I have been the one to whom the dying man begs of "mercy" before the inevitable darkness claims them. I am the one who must sit through lectures that Galbatorix tells his generals; I am quite familiar with the phrase "show no mercy."

But what does it ___actually_ mean? When I feel a slight dip in my step I shake my head once, sweeping my gaze across the landscape and berating myself for losing concentration. This is the last place where I would want to lose my focus.

My ___control_.

For as long as I do not think of ___her_ and ___them_, as long as I do not ___dare_ to think of killing ___her_, then I can, for a terrifying moment, believe that inner demon that is clawing at my heart, purring in my ear hideous fantasies.

___Oh, they'll die anyway,_ it casually dismisses my concerns. ___None live forever. _ I shut the voice out, yet it persists.

___Oh, give up, dragon. Nothing, nothing I say, can ever possibly free you. Death alone, and even then you shall rot. So, why not actually live? _

___Temptation_. The idea flits through my mind, taunting me, ___daring_ me to accept. A challenge. A ___temptation_.

Blast it! Curse the devil who created stupid emotions such as these! Curse my heart for every beating; curse ___everything_! Without thinking, I thrust my obsidian wings out.

___Yes, yes,_ my dark conscience purrs, ___let them feel your pain._

___No,_ I counter suddenly, though my voice lacks any sort of conviction. I try to steady my quivering wings as the army behind me tenses in anticipation. If even possible, I know I would've morphed into a phoenix from the fire that sears through me. My feelings sway in favor of that evil little voice; my resolve weakens. Why cannot I just be given a ___break_?

___Kill them and all your problems will be solved,_ the conscience reassures, steadily gaining ground in my wavering decision.

With a hissing breath, I shake my head and close my wings, startling both armies at the abruptness of my decision.

My own eyes widen in surprise, though I narrow them accordingly to keep up with my hating façade. We are close. ___Terribly_ close. I can clearly see every feature of her sinuous form, groaning inaudibly in despair. All it would take would be to fly…

I review hastily my options at this moment; both probable and improbable. I might just give in to my instincts and, despite the lethal consequences; attempt to kill the horrid man I bear. It is impossibly tempting; every step I take seems beyond forced - ___planned_. If it weren't for my own cowardice of dark magic's potency, then certainly there would be no hesitation.

But there is. There's that blasted indecision, where I am the one who must chose which piece to advance, which route to take in the darkness, fully capable of ruining all hope.

There is also the fact that I might just obey him like a sick dog and go forth with this, actually fulfilling his final plan.

No.

I stare at their army, face blank. I cannot seem to even find the energy to move forward considering that horrible possibility. I cannot even ___fathom_ that now. Not with her so dreadfully, ___wonderfully_ close.

I growl in a rumbling snarl as I try and force myself forward before any such considerations are noticed by ___him_. If ___he_ noticed, then I would have no chance to possibly resist; ___he_ would make certain of that.

With his blind trust in dark magic, he places a great deal of faith that I will - unquestioningly - follow this route. Had I not already slain ___dozens_ of my brethren? How could this one female ___possibly_ be driving me ___absolutely_ insane with desire?I'd rather kill myself than her. I know that I would sooner drive poison through my very heart, crush my own throat, and break my own skull before I would even ___touch_ her.

But there is a fine reality. One that steps in to reclaim control in a crushing instant.

"Attack." My time is up. He's noticed, and now he is determined to make me commit the greatest crime possible. I crane my neck around slightly to gaze at our army, eager on the outside yet terrible resignation beaming from the inside. If they knew what I was suffering, then perhaps they'd realize that I'm not as horrible as I appear…

And then I slowly, hesitantly, let my head swing back to look at ___her. _

My heart gives an agonized throb as my chest swells, hissing in air for a preparatory roar. Customary that I declare the true war, that ___I _am responsible for beginning the end of the world. ___Attack! _I bellow, my voice strong and fierce with what appears to be bloodlust. Both armies cringe slightly from the pure hate, pure ___agony _in my cry. I hold the roar, allowing every edge of the world to feel the extent of my fury, my despair, my ___self. _

The ground shakes for several long, long moments before I close my maw, eyes blazing as I glance solemnly at her, who stares back impassively at me, unshaken.

The world seems to stop as suddenly as my roar ends. Arrows merge overhead in a gray, ominous plane. Cries of challenge ring out as the armies race to confront each other, so close suddenly that I can feel them approaching. And she just waits there, waiting for ___us _to attack first.

The world snaps back into action after less than a second.

Before I am thinking, before I am ___daring _to consider the consequences, I leap into the sky, my obsidian wings exultant.

I will best my master in this game; for this is the one game that I ___refuse_ to fail.

7

'We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us.'

-___Francois Rabelais_

******Shruikan**

Forget death; ___this_ is heaven.

For this ___freedom _is beyond any expectations I could have possibly set forth; beyond any I could possibly have imagined. I release my hold on reality and drift in these grayed clouds, feeling for all the world a king returned home; my own dark kingdom.

There is no man upon my back; there is no war below me; there is no earthly temptation strong enough to chain me down. I am soaring with ease, not needing to be seasoned to be graceful. This is a dragon's domain. Even if we forgot all else, our very lives and souls, we would remember our home – the skies.

For it is here that we entrust our spirits, and it is only here that we can truly be reunited with them.

I glide effortlessly around a pillar of gray, recognizing the ecstatic feeling instantly. It is not a hundred years that has separated my wings from true flight; it is not a century of misery and dull aching that has numbed them so I could hardly bear to lift them. It was merely a dark age, left in shadow and blow away like a wisp of smoke in the thrill of my return. It was merely a forgotten time, lost to this wonderful reunion.

___Murderer! _

The thought is flung at me freely as I round another bend, a gap in the clouds allowing reality to slip into my heaven. This is a war; my task is simple. Kill the dragoness. There is no joyous bonding time that I might share with the skies, no leisure time to reacquaint my wings with the wind or my head with the vertigo.

There is only a moment to look out, a moment to glimpse the center of my hardship, the center of my turmoil, aching, despair, and catastrophic thoughts.

The very heart of my hope, yet the epitome of my dread.

___Murderer! _the same, beautiful voice roars, fierce and magnificent at once. It is the call of a huntress, ready to seize her prey.

Though I am none's prize to be sought; I am the price to be paid for it.

I echo her voice with a deep call of my own, hiding it from my devilish controller. ___What is your name? _I ask decisively. She swoops up through the gray clouds fluidly, impressing even myself as she hovers dangerously near.

___Murderer! Oath breaker! _she accuses, ignoring my inquiry. I raise an eyebrow infinitesimally before roaring at her; I cannot simply wait for an answer, after all. Otherwise ___he _will finish this job himself, and I know that, above all else, that mustn't happen.

I tilt my wings slightly to the right, immediately swooping through an ashen cloud before emerging, refreshed. I wait patiently as I strategically re-orientate myself with the battle below, careful to fly over my army from this spectacular height and wait for her to initiate the chase.

She doesn't disappoint.

As soon as I feel her presence draw nearer, striking forth like a hawk diving for its prey, I surge powerfully upwards, my massive wings driving me up to a far higher altitude than she could ever wish to obtain in a single thrust. I admire how small and insignificant the armies appear below me from such tantalizing heights; it is far easier to ignore them and the horrible massacre in the making. I glare appraisingly at the muted sun, cast in slight shadow by the thick clouds. Lunging upwards, I roar exuberantly, though I fill it with challenge.

___Come and fight me! _I call down to her, surprised when she unflinchingly soars to my height, bellowing her own defiance.

I ready myself for the inevitable and she breaks forth the invisible spell that kept us from attacking; her jaw is open threateningly and her claws are outstretched in marvelous ferocity. I duck my head down to her strike and instinctively allow my own jaw to fall open before hastily closing it, barely missing her armored flesh. ___You are lethal, _I remind myself, ___absolutely lethal. No biting whatsoever. _I wince sympathetically as I am forced to press her back, making it appear to cause great damage while also doing my best not to break any bones. Despite my efforts, I feel the armor protecting her forelegs nearly crumble under the force that I carefully apply, caving inward dangerously. It appears uncomfortable, though I am left with no moment as the reality of the fight suddenly dives into full acceleration, as though the momentary lull was merely the sluggish countdown before this startling race.

My mind is fogged with the orders I am bidden to oblige; my thoughts are muddled with chaotic ideas. I soar higher, pressing up towards incredible altitudes, unafraid of the thinning air. She hesitates for a split-second below me before daringly meeting my challenge, surging up despite the strain I can feel radiating from her wings as she must force them to hover on the weakened air. ___Harder to fight in, isn't it? _a part of me sneers devilishly at her, while another frets that if I keep up this dare-devil tactic I will throw her over the limit and perhaps myself as well.

Crimson blood rips across one of my wings as she darts across, unhindered, apparently, by my larger form. I am unfamiliar with the blood on my claws, the blood leaking calmly from my wings; the blood now retreating back into them. I am lost as to ___why _she appears so defeated already before noticing a sickening gash upon her belly.

I am baffled as to where I am, and where the armies are, so very far below.

So I flee higher yet, disappearing in my thoughts to reappear with my claws sunk deep into her flesh, tearing ragged lines on her side as she holds my own neck in a piercing grip. We snarl at each other, baring our fangs menacingly as magic assails us both mercilessly. And yet higher I climb.

Now, even ___I'm _having difficulty maintaining this outstanding altitude; breath coming in more ragged heaves. Hers are even more labored; her rider does not appear well at all, struggling as he obviously is. Even Galbatorix, from some far point in my mind, cautions me against going any higher, subtly implying that he, too, is taking this new level poorly as well.

My thoughts rage as I try to control them; the oxygen-deprivation is starting to affect my judgment as I whirl around, vision taking several seconds too long to clear and still before revealing that, thousands of feet below, the war continues on, though it is but a black mass of destruction from up here.

With a devastating whip of my tail, I lock my wings and plunge into a freefall.

She pursues relentlessly, her sapphire wings curled to her sides and her own plummet matching mine.

We separate after a time, maybe a thousand feet above, having dove several times over that. Her rider is limp and for several long moments even Galbatorix is utterly silent before I realize belatedly the spell he focuses on.

In a surge of invisible energy, I watch as she reels back in agony, and as her rider suffers alongside her, a howl breaking his lips.

Taking in an expansive gust of air, I breathe outward, unleashing a burst of scarlet fire. She dodges, though I can see the exertion is taking its toll. I feel completely rejuvenated; nothing strong enough to defy me. I swoop off to the right, letting out a strange choked roar as something venomously tears down my neck. I stare, yet I see nothing; no wound, no sword, no blood. I soundlessly endure the agony of having your throat split, feeling the raw knives tearing through it. My breath hitches, coming in slight pants before I dash to the right and recuperate at a higher altitude.

I wonder what drives my sudden obsession with having to be the highest, though I ignore that as the sensation loses a knife, becoming noticeably less painful as I soar up again, distancing myself from her.

Of course. Magic. The retaliation had caught me off guard. Confident with the invisible pain known, I plunge through the cloud and roar angrily at them, appearing fearsome for certain. She pauses for maybe a hundredth of a second before returning my anger in earnest.

Amusing; at least we share the same opinion on some things. Well, in a sense.

She again initiates the first strike, though I counter it by swatting her head away with my claws, completely expecting her to reel back from the painful looking claw marks etched on her left cheek. I am met with a strong barbed tail, ripping several wounds in my own face.

Outrage floods me and, before common sense or reason or logic or any thought can catch up with me, I make the mistake, and bite her.

And then we are falling once more.

8

'The risk of a wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision.'

___- Maimonides_

******Saphira**

It is strange how, up until the very moment it occurs, life alternates between surreal and unreal.

Every occurrence seems, at the moment, so normal, so ___mundane_ that there is no doubt that it is happening. Yet, once you pause to actually ___think, _a stranger world is unveiled, where things are either strange or impossible. The oddity of my presence before such an army, nigh the last of my kind; the impossibility of it all ___actually happening. _How riders and dragons fell to ___that man _who sits so ___unbearably _close; and then the dragon beneath him. Even stranger – the subtle desire to launch myself at him and demand answers. Why he would surrender so ___easily_, why he would allow himself to be so ___owned_, ___why _he wouldn't fight back?

And yet, deeper down, I am perfectly fine ___not _knowing. I don't ___want _to know why he's on their side and not ours – I don't ___want _to even ___think _about how it all came to be.

I just ___want _to speak with him – because I ___know _he has answers. He would know what true fear was – and he could relate to the panic steadily creeping up inside me at the very thought of fighting him. He would know why I was so drawn to his every breath – why I watched to see if he was preparing to unleash fire upon me. He would ___know _what it meant to be facing an army – to be so close to the end you could practically see death beckoning you at the edges. He would know – I'm certain he would.

And yet, no answers await me. No opportunities to ask how he ___survived, _how he possibly endured the ___fear. _Oh wait – he ___never _experienced this. He never knew what it was like to confront such an army as the underdog, and to have something more valuable than life at stake. To have the unadulterated terror at the mere ___thought _of it happening overwhelm you – to have the torturous possibility so precariously near.

Losing Eragon.

A twinge of guilt courses through me for perhaps a heartbeat as I realize ___why _this is such a likely possibility. If I had never chosen him as my rider, he would live the life of simplicity he'd always imagined. He would have grown up, perhaps found a mate for himself, and lived happily – probably without ever being truly involved in the war. He wouldn't have received that scar on his back, nor would he have lost his loved ones.

But without him, I know, there wouldn't be a rebellion – there wouldn't be hope for those suffocating under Galbatorix's oppressive rule. And, unsurprisingly, I know that I would rather have him suffer what he must and be here than all else.

Still, the horrifying prospect of losing him so soon nearly forces me to flee. Nearly.

Detachedly, I stare out at the army before us - paused in the final throes of preparation, the last moments of silence - and wonder.

Wonder what would be of them if it had not been for the black dragon and rider at their head – of the thousands of lives to be ruined in mere moments. Wonder if there was ever a hope for them to live better lives – and those who they are close to. Wonder if maybe they wouldn't even be there if ___he _didn't exist.

A low, aching numbness fills me – I know that, even though I wish it weren't true, I am not thinking of Galbatorix. I know I should hate Galbatorix more, yet I cannot find myself to believe it. For while ___he_ holds the answers – while ___he_ would know these terrors and fears better than any other – he's still my worst enemy. ___Saphira, _Eragon alerts, drawing me back to the sluggish present. ___Be ready. _

___I am, _I lie perfectly, my tone confident and firm. Though wary and restless, he takes the subtle reassurance and shifts slightly upon my back. I stare out at the army, noticing Shruikan's breath hitch briefly before swallowing an expansive gust of air. Tensing cautiously, I watch his gaze as he raises his eyes to the heavens, almost imagining the sorrow and pain in them. Opening his black maw he unleashes a penetrating roar – an incoherent cry to a casual observer, yet a thousand messages in one.

My claws instinctively clench upon the hardened ground, my heart lurking with sudden pity. ___Why? Why? Why? _His wordless voice echoes. From a near screech of outrage to a lowly buzz of sorrow, he subconsciously repeats the message through his roar. Overriding this hurt is the urgent call to challenge – the desperate need to ___attack. _

I resist a wince and shuffle forward a step unconsciously before stiffening as his massive obsidian wings flare outward. A thousand scars crisscross and intersect on those vast black planes, bespeaking the continuous torture he must've endured. The webbed material is thick and obviously durable, yet I can almost see the pain resounding through them.

Before I can further assess his position, he shoots upwards, a volley of arrows firing on both sides. Both armies charge; for a fraction of a second, I am left stock still in surprise before I crouch and follow.

Despite all pretenses, I cannot help but admire how surprisingly graceful he is – how fast. His wings ripple from the wind that glides over them, practically quivering. Though, I know it is no fear that causes such shaking – but euphoria.

Taking his brief distraction with flight to my advantage, I swoop beneath one of the building clouds, hidden partially in the thick fog. I stare – through a blue, dream-like haze – at him as he swoops around a corner, decidedly making my move and soaring forward to meet him.

___Murderer! _I accuse, trying to convince myself as well. ___Murderer! _I repeat, slightly more confidently. I round the clouds' bend and watch him pause, great wings flapping naturally. He stares at me, colds eyes oddly pensive, before roaring back in defiance.

___What is your name? _I almost hear him ask, dismissing it as my imagination. I surge up to his height, facing before him and continuing my accusations.

___Murderer! Oath breaker! _

He roars back, his own deep and infuriated, though it sounds… unnatural. Forced.

He takes off to the right. A sly, draconic grin fights at the corners of my jaw as I pursue, watching his expression change. A hint of excitement gleams there, surprising myself yet not unduly. He soars upward, a powerful thrust that launches him higher.

___You think you'll win that easy? _I muse silently, though a curious thought reminds me that he hasn't truly made any move to attack. ___Why won't you attack? _I question deaf ears, unflinchingly rising up to meet his height. Instead of meeting my gaze – or even glancing in my direction – he stares out at the dimmed sun, eyes glinting with its low light. Before I can make any move to attack, he shoots up once more, ignoring any danger that it might pose. Following – albeit slightly unwillingly – I launch myself at him, determined to ___get this over with. _

I snap at him, my teeth only grazing his impossibly strong scales – toughened and smooth like iron. Finding a weak spot I drive my teeth downward, surprised when he opens his jaw but closes it quickly. Pressing me back – with unsteady haste – he soars upward once more. I stare at him for a moment – wary. ___Is this his plan? _I wonder. ___Drive me too high? _

With a contemptuous snort, I rise up to meet his height; if he thinks to best me ___that _easily, he's in for a surprise.

___Saphira, _Eragon warns, voice slightly strained as he keeps Galbatorix at bay – my own strength holding up the barrier. ___No higher. _

___I'll try not to, _I concede. Darting forward, I graze his battered wings, my claws tearing through the thin material. I'm surprised as he doesn't bother to deflect – or even acknowledge – the blow, despite the blood freely pouring from them. In an instant, the blood begins retreating, the skin sewing itself back together flawlessly. I growl low in irritation – Galbatorix.

Horrible pain suddenly explodes from my belly and I roar and snarl as he drives a set of razor-sharp claws into the vulnerable flesh. Eragon doubles over on my back as I slam my tail into his side, drawing a deep, ragged scar.

He withdraws almost immediately, more blood leaking from my belly as I suppress the urge to roar in agony. I won't give him the benefit to know the agony it causes.

He climbs higher and I hesitate for a moment before surging upward. I pant heavily – the air unbearably thin. ___Saphira, _Eragon pants, ___too high. _

___I can't go down unless he does, _I respond, voice tight. I sense him nod reluctantly before drifting back into his own battle with Galbatorix. A flash of white-hot pain rips through my left side and I turn to see Shruikan's menacing claws sunk into the flesh, drawing rivulets of blood. Snarling, I seize his neck, applying bone-crushing pressure to the unarmored flesh. We simultaneously withdraw as he lurches upward, his own breath in large, frosty pants. I gaze at the red holes on his neck, knowing that if I he had bitten my own neck with the same pressure it would surely have snapped.

I deliberate for perhaps a second before surging upward, the strain on my wings enormous. The world fogs and swirls before me as I resolutely force my vision to steady. Grasping at the impossibly thin air, I watch him as he whirls around, appearing equally disoriented at such a pressing altitude. Eragon clutches the neck spike on my back, panting raggedly and begging, ___Go down. _

___I can't, _I say as I watch him, waiting for him to move. Whipping his tail around, he locks his wings and plunges downward.

___Hang on! _I warn quickly before pursuing his dive, the world flashing and spinning before me at the sudden change in altitude. We plunge through the clouds, my dive only feet behind his. I feel Eragon's presence slip, unconscious claiming him for several frightening moments before we steady at a far more reasonable altitude. Gulping down air while focusing on Shruikan, I snarl before roaring in agony, pain rippling through the link to Eragon.

___Galbatorix! _I realize silently, scorching pain burning me from the inside out. My vision flashes red and black, yet I somehow manage to distinguish the flare of fire he breathes at me and swoop to the left. Exhaustion, pain, and shock fight to drag me down, though I forcibly stay flying and snarl back at him defiantly. ___Eragon, _I say, knowing he understands.

___Right, _he answers shakily. I watch smugly as Shruikan reels back, his breath hitching before coming in unsteady pants. He soars higher, escaping the safe range of magic use. A gleam of understanding, and outrage, enters his eyes as he stares down at us. With a fearsome bellow, he dives and rushes up to meet us.

I pause and then return the call, my own voice outraged. He swats at my face, knives driven into the flesh there as the armor willingly gives way. Returning the favor, I swing my tail around, drawing a matching set of scars on his own face.

With a ferocious call, caught between a roar and a snarl, he lunges forward, teeth bared and dripping with an unknown toxin. I feel them graze the armor protecting my neck harmlessly, a horrified look entering his eyes as he quickly withdraws. Instead of allowing him to retreat, I latch around his neck and lock my wings.

He mimics the gesture, not bothering sink his own teeth into my flesh. We plummet rapidly, yet neither of our gazes are fearful of the deadly fall below. A strange acceptance comes to his gaze and I suddenly notice that now is the chance – I could kill him there and now.

Roaring, I release him, at the last possible moment before we would've crashed, and soar upward.

___You'll have to kill him, _a part of me chastises gravely.

___Not yet, _I avoid, though I know that I'm running out of time.

I stare back at him, surprised to see him on the ground, staring up at me as he folds his wings, waiting, waiting for me to confront the inevitable.

I growl low – though whether from pain, irritation, or fear, I don't know – and swoop back down.

9

'There are victories of the soul and spirit. Sometimes, even if you lose, you win.'

-___Elie Wiesel_

******-Shruikan **

It seems that, from the moment I drop my wings, time slows. The arrows that preen in their own dark way above us, the swords that dance with wicked bloodlust, and the shields that crumple seem frozen, paused mid-strike with cutting precision. Every inch of cold steel seems sharper; every blow seems thousands of times more crippling. The howls of agony seem to last longer, and the fall to the blood-soaked earth seems horribly slow, as though they must endure the pain for as long as can be drawn out. And each face, each ___face _seems more distorted, no longer a person – but an animal, feral and deadly.

Arrows penetrate the armored flesh with unnatural ease; swords slide between ribs, sheathing perfectly. I wince – it's terribly familiar. The throbbing pain in my face is all too dreadfully similar – as though even fate mocks me. The tortured cries, the hideous clashes, the abhorred defeats… And even with these horrible things, it's not mere human soldiers that I see – not insignificant ___people. _

I can almost see ___them – _their dragons, their swords, ___themselves. _Like a nightmare reborn, I stare at them, petrified of the long-lost nightmares. Why won't they just ___leave? _Why can't they just ___end? _

Vaguely, I sense Galbatorix, though he is only just at the edges of my perception – no longer important. Instead, my eyes stray and wander the battlefield, the echoing dragons' roars resounding through my head as I unwillingly ___remember. _Remember the blood shed – the sight of dragons lying in their own blood, battered and bleeding, torn apart by their own brethren. I shiver involuntarily.

Staring up at ___her _though – the past shatters. The nightmare vanishes – time reasserts itself at its fast, almost supernatural pace. Watching her hesitate before she dares land nearby adds a strange comfort – an unknown solace that I'm not the only way that fears what's next. The screams, curses, begs, pleads, cries, and howls of a war so long ago mercifully fade, allowing only the far more tamed war before me. None of ___them _are left to haunt me.

Even as I watch her move, I hesitate as well, allowing her to land with no counterstrike – no move to approach or attack. Ruby blood slips from her glorious white fangs, dripping to the ground like red rain. My gaze runs over her form, blue scales stained crimson and crushed armor surrounding her from where my claws struck. The low throb of my heart seems painful as I look at her, eyes pleading her to understand. To understand that I don't ___want _to hurt her – and I can't possibly bear to kill her. That I ___want _her to win, but I ___just don't know how. _

And, though it was undoubtedly my imagination – for it ___could never _have been true – I almost smile when I see her barely noticed nod. ___I know, _it secretly conveys.

My claws lurch out, lengthening as my wings extend in a threatening stance. I rumble low, hopefully sounding convincing, and roar, beckoning her forward. She waits stoically, unresponsive to my call. Ah. So she's smart enough to know. Know that initiating the fight would be suicide – and that I would have no choice ___but _to kill her.

Steeling myself – and mildly surprised that neither of us had been struck by the opposing armies warring around us – I cautiously march forward, angling to the left slightly and growling all the while. She angles right, returning the snarl. ___Don't make this harder, _I moan silently, wanting desperately to stop now and surrender. But if she continues to believe – and why wouldn't she? – that I'm going to kill her… I wince. The harder she works, the more likely…

I shake my head furiously – suddenly – startling both her and her rider. ___Why? _I roar aloud, feeling Galbatorix's outrage wash over me. ___Why? _I repeat, heedless of the sharp pain in my skull. My claws drive deep into the hard soil, an angry snarl tearing at my lips. I stalk forward, my gaze wicked and my jaw open, displaying its full, impressive array. A scorching flare of white-hot fire erupts from my maw, so fast and unexpected that she has no time to react – no time to dodge before I am plowing into her side and shoving her towards the masses of soldiers. ___No! _a part of me cries in anguish. ___Stop! _

A wave of emotion overwhelms me – betrayal, hatred, hurt, pain, anguish, despair, sorrow… ___Stop it! _I howl at them – the torments of my mind. ___Stop! _

I savagely pin her down, her rider fortunately sprawled somewhere off. My keen peripheral sight acknowledges how he staggers to his feet, though I am far more focused on the dragoness now snapping and roaring and writhing beneath me. I pin her tail with my own, my front claws restraining her forelegs. I snap my teeth once and watch her, both of us panting as we stare each other down. I am only faintly aware of the warm blood dying my claws, though she also ignores it.

It seems hours pass – though I know it is only a second – before my claws retract quickly and I force myself away, shaking my head desperately. ___No, _I groan. She continues to stare at me – everything else blurred like a dream.

So beautiful – so naïve of the harsh world. Always believing the heroes win; the cruel truth of knowing__better. And my gaze sweeps over the battle, not registering anything but the pulsing gray haze over my sight, the fogged masses writhing before me.

I linger on my true nightmare – drawn up straight from death itself. Galbatorix beating her rider back, forcing him to his knees.

___No… _a small part of me whispers, horrified. Sickening pain rushes through me as a vicious set of teeth latches onto my head, unable to crush hard enough to break it. Darkness crashes over my vision, though I can feel the light grin tug at my lips as I watch her rider seize control, stabbing Galbatorix through the heart. I willingly collapse to my knees, panting with the staggering pain, yet relieved beyond measure.

___Incredible, _I say before feeling the teeth withdraw slowly.

A loud thud follows and the last thing I see is blue – wonderful blue – as I lay my head over her neck, protectively.

******-Saphira **

Landing is painful – in more ways than one.

The aggravated gashes on my sides and belly seethe in protest to the light jostling as I keep the distance between us close enough to strike yet far enough to make it so that one ___has _to initiate it. My gaze lingers on the deep red holes on his neck, as well as the scarlet smears on his wings. Meeting his gaze finally – reluctantly – I stare at his curiously fearful expression. What would he possibly fear? What ___could _he fear? Though, the desperation in his eyes is painful to look at – so vulnerable to ___something. _A deep sincerity – undoubtedly true – enters his gaze, and I can only nod – so slightly – to it, wondering myself what it is I have agreed to.

A hint of satisfaction enters his gaze, and then despair clouds over again. I warily shift to the right as he shuffles left, watching him carefully. He tenses, every step seemingly despised, claws tightening whenever they met earth. ___Why haven't they attacked? _I wonder, curious and suspicious. ___Or do they expect us to attack first? _Lurching forward suddenly, the black dragon before me interrupts my thoughts.

___Why? _

The thought is flung freely – brokenly – into our midst, no precautions taken or considered. Eragon's grip on my saddle tightens – suspicious as well. ___What was…? _But before he can finish, Shruikan speaks again, voice low and dredged with sadness.

___Why? _

A certain empathy overcomes me; the growing desire to launch myself at him and demand what he wants. Why he's so afraid – what terrifies him so. His face darkens noticeably, a snarl rippling in his throat. Stepping forward, he growls, pausing only a moment for his claws to dig into the ground. Closer he comes yet I remain still, unwilling to be daunted so easily. With a ferocious roar, a pillar of white flame splashes onto my armored chest and face, heat intensely unbearable. Without the time to even cry out in agony, I am forced back by his enormous bulk as he presses forth, ramming me back into the army. The bloodlust is clear in his eyes, glowering with the utmost hatred. Retaliating pointlessly, I struggle to maintain a semblance of control, barely noticing Eragon's absence as he is cast off to the side.

It is only the two of us – as wild, untamable dragons – who fight now, struggling and writhing, pressing and tearing, kicking and thrashing at the other. Neither giving in – our strange growls in sync as we defiantly face the other. Pressure – breaking, bone-crushing pressure – applies itself to my forelegs, yet my gaze never strays from his deep, almost hypnotic one. Lost in the throes of battle, yet never more aware of the other.

___Saphira, _Eragon's voice calls from a place far, far away – too far to be noticed or heeded. Our hearty pants – vicious yet fatigued at the same time – cloud the air before us, the thickening moisture in the air making each breath a heavy gust of fog. Melding, intertwining as they disappear, our gazes never faltering. An unfathomable desire to ask him – to finally ask the questions I so desperately wish to say – courses through me, yet I withhold it as I stare at him.

And then, he pulls back – almost clumsy in his haste – and stares off, gaze distant. I follow it and – for the shortest of moments – I can almost imagine us seeing it the same.

___Now! _a voice within me beckons, and I glance at his exposed neck with the briefest of hesitations before seizing his head. Large and thickly protected by scales, bone, and muscle, I know it's not fatal – and a strange content at this infuses in me. __

___Saphira! _Eragon cries again, voice much closer. And suddenly, my jaws locked around his skull, I ___see _it. I see the battle before us – but not ___this _battle. The battle of a century ago – where dragons flew and tore each other out of the sky mid-air. Where they lay – far beyond any repair – on the ground, staring up at the sky hopelessly before drawing their last breaths. Riders – anguished – kneeling by their partners' sides, holding their fallen companion's head lovingly before being struck down as well. Phantom pain courses through me – and in that instant, all questions are answered.

He ___didn't _survive the fear – he ___didn't _endure the torture. He died – long ago – and yet here he remains, drowning beneath the dark magic's hold. Clinging desperately to the fibers of his former being – holding them close and firm – yet unable to mend the irreparable wound.

Despair envelops me as I realize this – the true hopelessness of it all. And yet, a fierce determination overshadows it and I stare at Galbatorix, beckoning Shruikan's power and shattering the mental fortress that looms there. Shruikan doesn't react – I wonder, for a heartbeat, if he even noticed. Lurching back as though struck, Galbatorix leaves the fatal opening. Even as my vision clouds, I smile contentedly as I watch Eragon finish the task, sword plunging deep into the tyrant's heart.

The deepest satisfaction, though, comes from Shruikan, but before I can react or respond, I fall back, my neck laying exposed before him.

Just as darkness overtakes me, I feel his own neck rest overtop mine, a low hum rumbling in his chest.

For once, I'm not afraid – but rather, an unreasonable feeling of being ___safe – _completely and utterly – radiates through me.

___It's over, _I think – not happily, but contentedly – before my senses desert me.

10

'One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.'

-___James Earl Jones_

******Shruikan **

___It could never have been, _I tell myself repeatedly, wings ruffled in the gentle autumn breeze. The scent of pinewood and oak fills my nostrils as I take in deep, hearty breaths, forcing myself to be calm. The lush forest – leaves painted gold, yellow, and crimson – stands before me, so open of my presence it is painful.

___It could never have been. _

The dismal chant rings through my head, a monotonous drone that is the only thing keeping me from going back. My onyx eyes – glowing indigo at the edges, so perfectly melded that it is hardly noticed – take in the scenery with impassivity. Frustration gnaws at my innards – irritation drags claws down my wings mercilessly.

___It could never have been. _

___Couldn't it? _a part of me counters weakly.

I shake my head solemnly, gazing at the glowering sunset darkly. ___No, _I reassert, voice toneless. My breath catches in my throat and I swallow a sob of despair, breathing out heavily.

___Why? _I plead to no one before snapping a young juniper beneath my ivory claws.

Mountains – fogged by an ominous line of clouds – overshadow the peaceful forest, so oblivious to my hurt, my suffering. I wish I had died that day – this unbearable loneliness is far worse than death's kind release from worldly pains. To have come ___so close _and then …

I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have disappeared like I did, awakening before her and fleeing – cowardly – to ___anywhere _but___ there. _I shouldn't have let the opportunity – ___right there – _disappear, vanishing as I did.

There was no pursuit – none calling me back or tracking me down. I was just let go – my wings tinged with an oddly dark blue as I flew away.

___Indigo. _

The color is so familiar it hurts – yet I cannot recall ___why. _Like a long-lost memory – rekindled, but in a hazy fog – I ___remember _this, I ___know _this, but I cannot figure out ___why. _I sigh deeply, frustrated yet too defeated to feel any true anger.

Lapping at the edges of my claws is the golden tinge of the sun – setting as it always does, uncaring of my predicament. Gold splashes over my torso and back, casting my face into deep shadow. The indigo edge to my wings and scales lightens, almost beatific in the glow. Gazing out at the forest, I let out a low, aching moan – caught between a rumble and a sigh.

Three hundred years. I know I should be over it – have long since dismissed it. But I ___can't _ignore it – the crippling blow to my heart. To be so near – the opportunity so close, only a word away – but to give it up and ___run. _Run away to this place – this lonely, quiet place – and stare out at the mountains that curl down the western half of Alagaesia. The Spine.

And to know that I might be the last – to not even know if she's still alive. Beyond torture, beyond ___agony _it is to be so cowardly.

I absently carve the hard soil beneath me, a single ivory claw sliding over it with sluggish ease. Interspersed plants trail lazily along the sides of the open clearing, grass near nonexistent in these colder months. When I glance down at the earth, I sigh and cross out the meaningless doodle. ___It could never have been, _I repeat.

But ___why? _Why couldn't I have just stayed? Why couldn't I have found it to at least ___talk _to her – learn her ___name? _

A light carpet of gray drapes over the trees as night descends, the sun's fall reaching its pinnacle in a flare of gold. Dipping beneath the horizon, though, it leaves behind a trail of obsidian, surrendering its lasting fight to remain high. I rise – slow and uninterested – gazing at the darkening sky dully. So alike that dark I am – forever feared, forever conquering the light at one time, only to fall at another, forever ___there. _Lonely, cold, unwanted…

My head bows beneath it, hours passing as I continue to silently drown in my pain. Frigidity chills the air, clinging to my hard onyx scales, futilely trying to cool my fiery presence. Stars soon peek out from beneath the black shadow, the moon a solemn crescent. Finally, I raise my gaze, staring up at it and letting out a low, lugubrious roar.

I wonder if the heavens hear me – if there is such a thing. I wonder if ___anyone_ hears me.

Or perhaps they just turn away, ignore my call as the world so ignored my presence.

Finally – breathlessly – I lower my head, panting and shaking. For a moment, I see ___her _– bloody, wearied, and fierce, but still perfect – panting as well, pinned beneath me so long ago… I can almost imagine that it is not just my breath filling the gap between us. At the mercy of my wrath – yet so unafraid.

Though, looking back upon it, ___I _was the one who was vulnerable – unable to possibly kill her, yet unable to back down.

I stare back up at the sky, my heart throbbing low in my chest. If only I had known – known the truth. That it was ___all in my head. _That if I had simply ___tried _to see past the darkness – so strong, so compelling and deep – I could've killed ___him. _

But forever that impenetrable ___fear _had frozen me – prevented me from trying.

I'm a coward – a bloody, unwanted ___coward. _So much pain, so much suffering I could've ended right there – but I ___never tried. _

Crouching, I let my wings unfold, thrusting upward and shooting up into the sky, a blur of indigo in the night. My vision – once gray and hazy – glows a marvelous navy around the edges. I admire the bluish halo surrounding the moon, sparks of sapphire showing the stars. So familiar – the sky of a thousand ages and more – yet so unknown all the same. Always there, yet always changing.

With an exuberant bellow, I let my voice be heard, wondering who listens. I swoop over the darkened gray forest, leaves shimmering with the lightest breeze. Soaring upward, I crest the moon, knowing I am flying across the ceiling of the world. Ecstasy – pure and untouched by the world – flows through me, adrenalin coursing through my veins.

A sudden, startling blue soars through the air, appearing as though from the blackness itself. Curious, I roar out to them – ___It can't be her, _I remind myself firmly. Unhindered by my call, they swoop around, and a hint of dread washes over me as I realize that it truly can't be her. Sullenly, I swing around – preparing to disappear again – when suddenly a flash of blue courses overhead, hovering before me in an instant.

My heart freezes before slamming back to full speed.

___What are you waiting for? _she asks – a lilting, smooth tone to her voice. There is no scorn – no disdain or anger – in it and for a moment I wonder if she even recognizes me. ___Well? _she persists, and something – ___something _– tells me she recognizes me. With a flick of her tail, she dashes off to the side, beckoning me to follow.

Frozen with shock – yet eager to obey – I soar after her, surprised at how much she has grown. Certainly this can't be the same dragon – can it? But that voice…

___What are you doing here? _I finally dare question, my voice neutral. Inside, though, it's a struggle to keep the desperately hopeful side of me from bursting forth.

She turns agilely, facing me with an unreadable expression. ___What are _you ___doing here? _she retorts – though not angrily, I note. I almost smirk – ___almost. _

___I'm serious, _I insist, voice steady only through an effort.

___I am too, _she counters readily, and to that I have nothing to say. Smirking draconically, she flies upward, an unspoken challenge written in it. ___Will you just fly there all night? _she dares. I snort – my momentary awkwardness forgotten – and swoop up to her height easily.

Soaring up again, she sets the challenge once more. Expectantly, she looks down at me, hovering effortlessly. I meet her once more, our gazes locked determinedly. With an almost playful growl, I shoot up, not stopping as she follows unflinchingly. ___She's fast, _the more logical side of me comments.

___I'm faster, _I counter as I soar upwards, streaking through the night. The world spins and twirls; the previously unnoticed beat of our wings almost hypnotic. I watch her fly upwards – rich blue the only color I see – and daringly swoop across from her, my wings briefly grazing hers. Shivers tingle on them as we both turn to face each other, our gazes meeting for an instant. Panting from the thin air – chilled breaths sending gusts of fog – I realize that, truly, this is ___her. _

___Why… why did you come? _I ask seriously. Instead of a witty remark, she falls silent, staring back at me for several long, quiet moments, interrupted only by our heavy breaths and beating wings.

___I don't know, _she finally admits. ___To thank you, I suppose, _she adds.

I raise an eyebrow slightly. ___Thank me for what? _

___Answers, _she replies cryptically, and before I can question what, she continues, ___It's a lot simpler if you just accept that much. _

___You're welcome, _I breathe, dazed. What did ___I _do?

Amusement radiates from her as she swoops around, plunging downward in a freefall. For a moment, I remain, staring out at the sky and wondering whether it is right to follow. I could leave now – run away before the painful past reemerges. She pauses, several hundred feet below now, and stares up at me, waiting. She ___knows _that I could flee now – an understanding look comes to her face as she retreats, soaring off from where she'd appeared.

A sudden, dreadful feeling of separation engulfs me. I ___can't _let her go this time – I wouldn't live it.

Diving down after her, I ride the wind and surge after her, determined to keep up. Allowing me to catch up, she stares at me for several moments, eyes unreadable.

There's no endearing love or passion there – no anger or resentment either. Rather, acceptance of our fates – to be the last of our race – gleams, mirroring my own. With a low, warm hum, she brushes her cheek – very briefly – against my own, as though greeting an old friend, and says, ___Come fly with me. _

And, without hesitation, I fly with her once more, the dark dragon with the light; black scales melding with blue.

******-Saphira **

Soaring through the air contentedly, I scan the dusky landscape lazily, watching the insignificant trees pass below me. I sense Eragon at the edges of the contact, enjoying himself with a group of new friends living in the rebuilt village of Carvahall. Without the pandemonium of constant attacks and warfare, he and I are free to roam the new Alagaesia, though we still take precautions with elvin guards. I am comfortable, though, leaving him for the moment, taking this flight to who-knows-where, unaware of anything but the wondrous sensation of flying.

I spot a small herd of deer – a large, healthy buck at its head – wandering beneath me, freezing as I fly over them harmlessly. ___This _is what it means to be a dragon of the skies. To have lesser beings cower in fear – even if unseen to them – at merely your presence. Casting a quick glance to the descending sun, I unleash a burst of white fire, tinged blue at its edges. It vanishes in a thin fog of smoke, disappearing behind me as I continue my meaningless flight.

The barren emptiness of the skies, though, is discontenting, leaving a hollow, alone feeling throbbing inside me. There are no dragons left – none to inhabit these glorious azure planes. A wistful sigh escapes me – perhaps there was one, but he's long dead – long gone from possibility. Shaking my head quickly, I swiftly traverse another league or so in the air, my sapphire wings expansive and rippling with the wind. Allowing my gaze to wander over the sun – shining from a distant place – I cast a long glance to the mountains that distantly frame the left side of my sight.

An unmistakable scent abruptly washes over me as a light breeze bathes my face and scales. I pause mid-air, my great wings flapping subconsciously as I stiffen to ___that _scent – one which I could never forget. I do not realize I have held my breath – as though desperately trying to hold it closer – until I suddenly draw in a larger one, needy to get air. Another blinding wave of that strange aroma makes me near dizzy as I unsteadily follow the trail.

___Dragon_.

___It can't be him, _I admonish half-heartedly, ___he died. Didn't he? _But the closer I draw, the stronger the scent grows until finally it is nearly unbearable. My eyes scan the ground futilely, knowing he – ___It might not be him, _part of me reminds. Gazing down at the forest in frustration, I ignore the drawing urge of the hauntingly familiar scent and dive down, landing in an open alcove of pines, shaking my wings slightly to free them of twigs and branches. Far ahead of me I can see the golden rays splay out from the sun as it reaches its climax, ruby and orange melding around it as a light, beatific pink melds into the calm azure. Settling with the sun, I watch it disappear with a twinge of sadness – how quickly, it seems, yet another day has gone by.

Night darkens the forest quickly, sluggishly encroaching over the woods until shadows dominate the light. Unease swells inside me, spreading across my membranous wings until they are taut with an unknown anxiety. Wondering if now would be the right time to return to Eragon, I glance up at the sky, cool and calm as always. Standing as though to leave, I pause – my wings outstretched and muscles tensed – indecisive. The strong, draconic scent still lingers, easily traceable to further east. And yet, while one part desperately wants to follow, another restrains me, a discontented feeling settling inside myself.

A low, mournful peal breaks the subtle rustling and I instinctively jerk forward, the sound drawing a horribly lonely feeling to the front of my mind. I stare upward, watching the cool velvet sky impassively, wondering if I should dare follow the sound. Certainly it cannot be him – ___he _died years ago. He had to have…

But it continues – so terribly ___alone _I want to fall to my knees and beg of it to end – oblivious to my own torment at the sound. I knead the soil restlessly, shuffling my wings unconsciously, debating whether or not to follow. After several more moments – so much longer it seems – the roar fades, silence filling the sudden void.

I stare at the dark forest, lost in the deep remorse of the wordless cry. I cannot bring myself to retreat – to fly back to Eragon, who still sits – blissfully ignorant of the tortured voice – with his friends. I cannot force myself to give in and find that voice, to comfort that being as my heart so desperately wants to.

I do not have time to make a decision as a black – no, ___indigo _– streak leaps into the skies, obsidian wings disappearing into the endless night. My eyes narrow, then widen in astonishment. ___His _scent buffets me just as the reality of his presence does, wafting through the air and reaching me powerfully. Reeling back, I crouch, even more troubled than before. How can ___he _be alive? How can he possibly be ___alive? _I shake my head, waiting for him to notice my presence and flee.

Yet he continues to soar, missing me all the while. I snort softly, caught between irritation, amusement, and utter confusion. ___Why _did I just want him to find me? I shake my head once more, stiffening as another roar –far more pleasing – sounds out, loud and almost challenging.

___Hear me! _It seemed to cry, though I could never know if that was truly ___his _intent. Finally – crouching almost nervously – I leap upward, soaring high and watching amusedly as his incredulous gaze settles upon me, observing my flight with awe written over his face. Obviously, I was not the only one not expecting this.

But to see ___him _again is… oddly comforting. What once should've terrified or horrified me now pleases me – his vast black wings seem as open and inviting as a pair of outstretched arms, though the surprised expression keeps me at bay as I wait for him to react. He roars – not in challenge – but merely in an almost awkward greeting, as though trying to further gain my attention. I hesitate, taking the time to swoop around as I watch his expression fall. I frown at his hurt look, watching him turn around and shooting after him, soaring overhead and pausing in front of him, forcing him to stop.

He freezes, shock the only emotion on his face as he stares at me. I, too, freeze for a moment, my heart thundering in my chest. Finally, I pull together enough of a semblance of control and ask, ___What are you waiting for? _His reaction surprises me and I suddenly understand how the words might appear to be misleading. Continuing, I add, ___Well? _Still, he remains shocked, surprised, and… happy?

Amusement rushes through me and, before he can see, I dash off to the right. He follows – almost clumsy in his suddenly helpless haste. I soar forward, watching him from the corner of my eye as he pursues. Hovering before me – unwittingly buffeting me with his strangely alluring scent – he asks, almost timidly, ___What are you doing here? _

Unable to resist, I reply, ___What are _you ___doing here? _

A smirk tugs at his lips, though he insists firmly, ___I'm serious. _

___I am too, _I grin, smirking. Surging upwards, I glance down at his still-dazed expression and ask, ___Will you just fly there all night? _Snorting contemptuously, he soars upward, our gazes meeting for several moments before I fly higher again, determined to keep him from vanishing. Pressing higher again, I watch him hesitate for a moment before following. I grin slightly as he immediately soars higher, refusing to stop as I pursue willingly.

I match his pace with my own, our wings beating in a strange, draconic harmony, filling the night with their rhythmic pounding. The world tumbles into a cascade of swirls and twists as my vision hazes over slightly. I resolutely fly upward, watching him with surprised eyes as he surges in front of me, causing me to pause. His wings quiver as he and I stare at each other, panting into the night.

Our gazes remain locked on one another – his tinged with indigo and mine glowing blue. I cannot help but admire the kingly quality the blue puts on him – ___dark _blue. After a moment, he asks shakily, ___Why… why did you come? _

A playful retort quickly comes to me, though the seriousness in his voice and eyes is undeniable. Allowing the silence to draw out between us, I try and recall ___why _I have come here – unsuccessfully.

___I don't know, _I admit. After a moment, another thought comes to me. ___To thank you, I suppose. _

He raises an eyebrow, appearing incredulous. ___Thank me for what? _he asks, tone matching.

And again, I don't know how to respond – until I remember, my jaws locked around him, the images flashing through my mind, providing me the courage to press forward and ___try. Answers, _I finally provide. He still looks confused and for a moment I consider explaining before deciding otherwise. Let him wonder. ___It's easier if you just accept that much. _

___You're welcome, _he practically stutters, obviously dazed. I withhold a laugh as I soar around, my wings freely absorbing the wind, and plunge downward, feeling adrenalin course through me. After a time, I look up, watching his still figure with a hint of disappointment. He just stares at me – not following, not making any move to pursue – rather just watches. I dejectedly take off, expression sullen. Almost instantly, I hear the mighty flap of his wings and almost smile.

Slowing my pace, I allow him to catch up, letting him fly beside me. Pausing, I stare at him, trying to discern what to make of this. This sudden need to be with him – yet not completely ___love. _Just the ___need, _the desperate desire to never let him go away as he did before. The comforting, protecting feeling that radiates from him is far too good to let go – the wonder of his presence is a gift in itself.

And so, hesitantly yet determinedly, I reach out, allowing my cheek to brush his oddly warm one for the shortest of moments. A wondrously pleased expression comes across his face, though I see both the acceptance and joy there.

___Come fly with me_.

And we flew – his blackened indigo against the night; mine always beside it, unwilling to let him ever disappear into it again.

**Chapter end notes:**

Well, it's been a wonderful experience for me to write this interesting, forbidden dragonistic romance. I've always imagined Shruikan to be far more animate and entertaining than a simple bloodthirsty slave, so writing from his PoV was very interesting for me. When I started this unusual fiction, I'd never have expected so many reviews - or reviewers - and to you all I am very grateful for taking the time to read this fiction. I never expected for this to be a Featured Fiction - so that was certainly a very nice surprise. I hope the ending satisfied you all - and if not, I apologize. But I thank you, nonetheless, for taking the opportunity to read this fiction, even if the initial idea of a Saphira/Shruikan seemed impossible.

-skulblaka_fricai


	2. Drowning

You know this is wrong.

Standing there in the alcove, shifting restlessly as your wings ruffle from a calm autumn breeze, your movements are clipped. You should flee now; flee back to the dead lands which you have become accustomed to, flee from these small pleasures. But oh, fleeing is so ___wrong_, fleeing is so cowardly and you are selfish. You must stay because, unlike your logical conscience, you are absolutely awed, stricken with amazement at the sight before you.

Soft birds sleeping in their trees surprise you; the trees themselves sway and seem to hum gently to the rhythm of the breeze. Above, obsidian is broken by small pinpricks of light – stars that you never believed truly existed. A dazzling white moon shines on one small piece of the endless black map. The fresh, earthy smell beneath you is comforting, soothing your weary mind.

Your heart cries out in wonder as you breathe expansively, wondering if you can possibly drown yourself in pleasure. For surely, you are floundering, bobbing in a tumultuous sway of emotions that toss you from side to side, back and forth, this way and that. Your heart, a voice in itself, pleas for you to stay, begs of you to remain in this all-too-perfect place.

Your mind, however, beckons you return to that cruel place which is Vroengard, to which you cannot possibly fathom any joy or pleasure existing. For it is so lonely there; so dark and dreary, so filled with terrible tragedies that no one other than you would dare flee to it. Many years ago, people would have stopped you, banished you from the hallowed ground, yet now, it has shifted, and you are self-exiled there. None bother you; none visit you; none remember you.

But oh, you grew restless; disappointed with such solitude and desperate to see something other than sadness. And so you came here – feeling as though you have broken some sacred code in itself – and immersed yourself in pleasure.

A snap of a twig startles you, a sound so terrifying it has you stock-still. The crack of a whip seems calming compared to such a dastardly sound; the sneer of a torturer sounds a lovely trill in contrast. For it is the sound of that twig – so small and insignificant – that means you have been discovered.

Hastily, you attempt to flee, your wings thrusting outward, throwing back an unsteady rush of air. Lightheaded, you stumble forward, dropping into a clumsy crouch and desperately hoping you might escape sight. But alas, your seeker appears, their eyes mellow and unprejudiced.

A voice calls your name softly – so beautifully, so perfectly, you cannot believe it is your name. Did your name ever sound that wonderful before? Certainly not on your own tongue, and never those who tormented you so long. Still, you must flee; must run.

'Wait!' they cry, pleading. Startled, you pause accordingly, your body stiff with anticipation. You know it is coming; an accusation, taunts, curses. Oh, you know it is coming and ___still _you are hopeful; a faint glimmer of trust enters your eyes as you turn. How beautiful your captor is – is it even fair for one to be both a torturer and an enchantress at once? You don't know – nor care – as your pursuer speaks, voice melodic and seemingly birthed from song itself.

'What are you doing here?' The accusation sounds so sweet on their lips – ___her _lips – you cannot find the heart to flee yet. 'Why have you come?' she asks again, persistent. Any other day you would be annoyed, frustrated, irritated that anyone would ask questions of you when you have been tortured so.

Yet tonight, amidst this forbidden forest, where junipers rise up to heights you never believed possible and creatures of such diversity you wouldn't have thought true exist, habits are discarded.

You will give her a chance, you decide, as you fold your wings back to your sides delicately. Oh how they ache with hunger! You wish to sink your teeth into the juicy flesh of a deer, perhaps sate it on a wild boar or two. Oh what you would even give for a scraggly dog, something to quench the insatiable hunger gnawing at your belly. You dare not excuse yourself to seek out food, having been discovered, yet your stomach rumbles discordantly in protest.

Amused laughter, so lighthearted and merry you cannot help but fall in love with it, rumbles clear through the somber clearing as you watch your seeker in wonder. How – it dominates your mind, an unanswerable question. How is it possible that you are here before her – how is it possible that ___she _is here before ___you?_

Your voice is lost, though, and you can only listen as she continues. 'Follow me,' she beckons, tilting her head back almost challengingly. Oh how glorious it makes her scales shine; illuminated a beatific sapphire in the soft glow of the moon. Your eyes hungrily travel down her angelical form, memorizing every dip and curve as you so wish to do by touch, not just sight.

Her velvety wings stretch, barely touching the trees as she stands, perfectly content to wait for you. Her eyes rove your body as well, as though assessing whether or not it is truly worth her time. You scramble to a more dignified stance, keeping an impassive countenance even as your heart pounds with anticipation. You must flee; you know you must.

But how can you when an angel has invited you to come with her?

Averting your eyes so as not to be tortured, you force yourself to settle. Your wings reluctantly draw back, and you can almost feel the sob breaking in your chest as you shake your head slowly. 'I cannot,' you whisper, your voice so disheartened that you know she has sensed the lie. But she, too, closes her wings, and you feel dismay clutch at your heart like a dagger.

If only, if only, you muse. You know that, had you been born in another time, to another Rider, to a man rather than a monster, you might have had a chance with her. But you mustn't taint her with your blackened heart. Drowning, you cannot indulge yourself to her expense; you cannot drag her under with you.

'I cannot,' you breathe again, aching to take the words back. Turning away from her, you stare out at the darkened forest, wondering how you have gotten so far without being discovered. Of course, there is truly no pursuit, and yet still you wonder if one of these days someone will put you out of your misery.

'Don't go,' she pleads again. You close your eyes, fighting tears. You know the rule; the instinctive law that the heartless do not cry over their own miseries.

'I must,' you insist staunchly. Oh how terrible you feel, to be rejecting her so, to be inflicting pain upon her when you know she seeks only comfort.

Comfort, you know, she cannot possibly find.

'Leave me,' you order. You silence your heart's vehement protests, continuing, 'You mustn't find me. I must leave.'

'No!' she cries, suddenly rushing forward. You stumble, a sharp growl escaping you as her body crashes into your own, forcing you to the ground. Though you are superior to her in size, you are no match for a surprise attack, and it is so that she has you upon the ground. To your surprise, she does not attempt to pin you in any way, satisfied apparently with merely knocking you down.

Rising unsteadily, you glance at her, her eyes seeming to stare right through you, an unknown urgency begging beneath them. You shuffle nervously to one side, blowing a hot breath of smoke as though to cool your rapidly beating heart. 'Don't follow me,' you say raggedly. 'Please.'

'Don't leave me,' she says instead, startling you beyond words; beyond comprehension.

You back slowly, warily, into the underbrush, as though it will conceal you. 'I have to,' you whisper. She steps forward, a sudden warmth flushing your face as she brushes her cheek against yours wordlessly. She is insistent, terribly insistent, and you find your resolve crumbling. The blush fades from your cheeks as she withdraws, yet the warmth hardly fades.

Heart pounding, ears throbbing with the sound, you raise your head and look down upon her firmly. She is hardly smaller, as she has continued growing exponentially while you have slowed. Still, it is she who appears larger now, powerful and resolute. Your eyes observe her, waiting for the inevitable dismissal, the vulgar words, ___some _sign of hate to come.

She steps forward; your breath catches in your throat as hers washes over you, face barely a foot away. Oh how you wish to reach out and close that horrible distance between you, yet you retreat as a wave of cowardice storms over you. She steps forward again, this time purposefully placing her snout against yours.

The gesture causes your breathing to stutter slightly, your eyes to widen fractionally while you still somehow manage to cling to impassivity. A liar, you are, in many ways, for even now you remain callous in your silence. 'Stay here,' she implores, sapphire eyes pleading.

'I…' words fail you, a miserable sign of weakness as you bow your head, accidentally brushing your snout further against hers. Your heart races again, fluttering amidst the ecstatic feeling of such a gesture. 'I cannot,' you insist feebly.

She hums lightly, as though she senses the end of your inner warring approach, and adds, 'Where will you go then?'

'Vroengard.' The word is bitter on your tongue, practically a curse. She nods knowingly, though; unperturbed.

'Why have you come here?'

You know the answer to that; yet you also know that answering would be admitting defeat. For you know that, in your heart, you have come secretly hoping for this very encounter you find yourself trapped in. But oh, you can't admit that – can't dare say it. 'To see what exists beyond Vroengard,' you answer, only partially lying. Truly, you came for that as well, but it is not the real reason to your journey.

A deep, heavy sigh is your reward and you cringe internally, wishing suddenly to leave. 'I must be going,' you all but stutter in your haste, wings surging outward. 'It's a long journey back, you know.'

She nods once, solemnly, before suddenly asking, 'Why did you leave?'

'I had to,' you say tonelessly.

'No you didn't,' she counters. You stare at her, hard eyes contradicting your melting heart. You want to confess, to admit your true endearment towards her, yet you know better.

But how important, truly, is it to worry over such issues? To torment yourself over whether or not it is ___right _or ___wrong _as you so know it is. You sink rapidly as your strength fades, resolve dwindling away to nothing. Darkness seeps into you from everywhere, suffocating you, pouring over you. You easily see her amidst the hurt, the sorrow, the pain, and you wish to go nearer, but each time you come closer, you lure her nearer as well, pulling her down with you.

'I can't hurt you,' you say, rather weakly. You stare away in something akin to shame.

'Don't go, Shruikan,' she insists once more, voice soft. You continue to look away, determined. But you soon look back, and see the same sad blue eyes mirroring your own black ones.

This is wrong; you know it is.

And still, you step forward, closing the distance between her and you, and say boldly, 'I am selfish to accept this.' You pause, staring at her, waiting for some rejection. None comes, only patient curiosity. She is waiting for you, whether you leave, whether you stay, or whether you are silent; she is waiting, and you know that, some time, you must answer.

'But foolish to deny you,' you finish, nuzzling her neck with your snout gently. She purrs quietly and the sound delights you; oh how foolish you were to ___ever _deny this.

For this, however wrong, is pleasure.


	3. Sapphire Before Scarlet

'We all carry within us our places of exile, our crimes, and our ravages. But our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to fight them in ourselves and in others.'

___- Albert Camus_

******Thorn**

The sun descends.

Undertones of darkness soften the sun's radiant scarlet, foreshadowing long hours of oblivion. Violet and gold meld into cooler, darker colors, drawing curtain to the lovely display. Soon, all becomes extraordinarily quiet as the sun disappears. Sullen clouds left behind can only drift along darkening skies, heedless of anything below them.

Thick junipers line the forest beneath me. My heart beats out a quiet rhythm to match the soft notes of the sun's departure, each seeming to slip forever behind as I soar. Wings ripple at my sides with practiced synchronization as I keep up a steady flight, faltering only when a rogue wind slaps me aside. Air buffets me, yet I do not slow down in the slightest, eventually circling around as movement below attracts my attention.

Crouched over a fallen tree (sniffing hopefully for food), my prey lets out a despairing moan as autumn's stiff grasp dashes the last of the summer-grown food. Needles splay out of the branches around me, clinging to gnarled bark for existence, occasionally snapping off as birds find perch near them. Frost already collects on their tips, and it is evident from the dark tones of mourning how the trees prepare for the season's wrath.

Winter approaches here.

Sweeping down, I land near silently in a clearing, claws sinking into chilled earth. A distasteful shiver winds up my paws at the numbing sensation, though a deep breath soon quells the discomfort. I look ahead; a league separates my prey and I. Red shadows the forest around as the creature prods every place it can reach, even standing tall to scratch trees with its paws.

Slipping within the cover of forest, I shadow its movements as it advances further northward, silvered coat protecting it from most of the chill. Movements muted by a soggy layering of leaves, my claws extend slightly in anticipation, saliva pooling into my mouth.

Nearer, nearer, I draw, so close I can smell even the breath which my prey breathes, laced with barks and grasses uncharacteristic of its kind. The desire to go closer intensifies as the creature pauses near a slick boulder-face, crouching to observe a hole created between a set of firm junipers. Unsatisfied, my prey continues, the distance between us decreasing steadily.

It stops again. Slowly, I close in, fire burning in my throat as I suppress the urge to release the hot torrent upon it. Wait, I command myself, slipping into a crouch. Memory, however, betrays me, and I slip into a stupor. Ageless trees surround me, muted laughter in their toughened chests as fate relentlessly presses me onward. Soft, hesitant protests linger in my throat, yet I never once voice them—too cowardly, perhaps. Even as that same belligerent creature defiles my name and being, I am pressed ahead—___forward_—and left to suffer the consequences.

Reality breaks in as my tail catches a branch, the sharp ___snap! _unavoidable. I growl in frustration as the furry-backed creature sprints to safety. It passes my vision once more a ways down, though I relinquish the chase as it vanishes a heartbeat later.

My anger proves useless as I simmer, quickly finding myself in the company only of mirthless trees. Pursuit rings in my ears, tempting—though not quite convincing. I know better. Or perhaps I've simply grown more cautious, more careful.

Defeat, I know well, is bitter.

Revenge is fatal.

0

"May you never forget what is worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten."

-___Irish blessing_

******PART 1. **

___'Of a sort too ghastly to recall,_

___A time too foul to speak of well,_

___There dragons resided in their thrall_

___Living on glorious tales to tell, _

___But even enemies must be bound_

___By that which hath been seen_

___Been found.'_****

******Saphira**

Sulfur drowns out my senses; potent and prevelant. A hiss of steam rises from somewhere, followed by an agonized scream. I tilt my head curiously in that direction, only to roar silently in pain as the harsh bite of a whip tears into my cheek. I jerk back—yet chains now pin me to the ground, bile rising in my throat from an unknown fear. I twist and strain against the bonds, a strange sense of futility engulfing me as I continue my struggling.

A black whip cracks—the sound like thunder in my ears—and my head jerks back in a silenced roar. Warm blood trails down my face, the scales already tearing away as it lashes out once more. Pleads for an end to the torture escape me, yet there is no reprieve, and so I find no voice for my secret cries. A shadowy figure appears briefly in the midst of the dark dream yet I am too ensnared in my own agony to focus on its features. Slicing at my neck like thousands of thin, penetrating knives the whip sweeps out again, too fast to possibly be wielded by a human.

Foreign words drift around me, a continuous stream of curses and spites. I try and turn my head away but shamefully the chains retaliate by dragging it down, forcing me to bow. I snarl as the whip strikes overhead, tearing at my head, and ache to break free. An overpowering desire to be free, to find some release from this torture envelops me yet I am powerless to oblige.

A roar escapes me—a collective cry of frustration, pain, and confusion—

—and it is only then I see that my scales are not sapphire.****

* * *

A low rumble interrupts my nightmare and my eyes drowsily open, blinking at the blurry form beside me. Something warm brushes my cheek, nuzzling it slightly in a calming gesture. ___All is fine, _a soothing voice informs. Such certainty resides in that voice there is no room for doubting, a sleek neck intertwining once more with my own. My breath comes in heated pants, though soon the soft humming in their throat quells my panic as I sigh once gratefully. A gentle nuzzle assures no thanks is necessary; still, words dance across my mind, unbidden.

___I didn't wake you, did I? _

Bemusement. ___All is fine, _he repeats shortly. I nod once carefully in agreement, laying my head down on the ground once more, trying to convince myself as much even though my doubt in him is none.__

___Yes, _I agree. But my voice holds no conviction; my eyes betray my true concern that the dream was more than just a dream.

He blows a light breath over my face and shakes his head slightly. ___Do not dwell on these things, _he commands gently.

I lift my gaze, staring up at the fading sky above us; only to imagine the thick smoke, the agonized screams, the unending pain, the tight chains, the branding whip… the undeniable ___fear _and ___need _to escape___._

A pair of deep, calculating emerald eyes stare worriedly back at me, fearing as though he has displeased me, as though it is ___his _fault… ___I'm sorry, _he murmurs, voice low with sorrow.

Time could stop the war—could bring ___us _together—but it could not bring ___him _back. ___He_ disappeared years ago and ___he _vowed never to return. He promised never to harm me again, that he hoped I ___forgot _him, as though he never existed… But my heart still searches, and with it, I am trapped to search forever.

___I am too, _I add solemnly. ___I am too…_

0

"If you're stuck and you don't know how to rise, don't look outside yourself. Look inside."

___-Bruce Jenner_

******Thorn**

The repetitive beating of footsteps upon stone rouses me; several gruff voices converse in hushed tones. All males, I discern, as their voices fill the quiet chamber with banter. There is no mirth in their tones, however, as they share clipped comments of the King's latest orders.

'Of course,' one dismisses, 'his nobles have a definite stake in the trouble, and those not resting upon the battlefields are also to blame for the latest difficulties.' Anything is accepted with quiet remarks, though it is easy to see that most of it is forced. A light jest centering about the notorious Black Dragon is thrown out by perhaps the youngest of the three, silencing the conversation immediately.

I sigh in resignation, decidedly silent. Though I wouldn't particularly leap to the defense of my miserable comrade in this prison, I cannot help but pity him. There are benefits to being invisible to the guards; you never have to deal with the pitifully inaccurate tales thrust onto your name. ___Shruikan_—though saying the name aloud is the equivalent of cursing the King—has never struck me as a foul, fire-breathing nightmare that they so claim. Then again, if pressed, I could not think of any rebuke. He is what he is; humans, or at least guards, seem to fail at understanding that.

But who am I to ruin their superstitious beliefs that, if tempered with, the Black Dragon shall smite them all? It certainly makes for an interesting threat, and, even if never has it come to pass, it is rumored that he scours the castle for stragglers and makes quick—though painful—work of them. Rubbish; but again, who am I to stop their cowering?

Having regained some sensibility that there is no immediate threat, one of the other guards breaks the cold silence with a nervous cough. Mildly intrigued, I listen as he dismally relates that more soldiers are to be drafted so that the King might reinforce the troops at some of the larger cities—Teirm and Dras-Leona in particular. I bob my head slightly in an uninterested nod as he woefully informs that his eldest son, Breod, lives in secrecy in Teirm—escaping exactly the circumstance that the King has imposed.

When the gruffer of his two companions responds, I allow their conversation to slip out of focus, diverting my attention to the growl of protest my stomach issues. Gnawing hunger aches in my belly, my nose twitching as the scent of mead and stale bread becomes evident. The soft, barely perceptible crunch of a stiff bite into a loaf reaches me and I lick my lips hungrily. Even crumbs would suffice at this moment as my nostrils flare in a desperate attempt to capture the beautiful smell of food. The craving intensifies and I moan low in agony, 'food' the sole thought dominating my mind. My claws extend, searching the floor before them for something to sate my thirsting.

___Control yourself, _I insist as saliva pools into my mouth, tormenting me further. Grudgingly swallowing, I stare at the darkness before me and force my thoughts to be emptied of such torturous things. Slowly—so terribly ___slowly_—I manage to do so, a dull hollowness occupying my mind instead. Gazing ahead, I can just discern a scarlet-laced door, far too small for a dragon of my size to even attempt to squeeze through. Bolted around its edges are small, magically-enhanced rods pinning the steel mass to the wall firmly. The faint glow of my draconic sight allows me to peer through the slim bars at its top, narrowly sighting the stone wall beyond. The disjointed stones piece together firmly, stacked high beyond my narrow sight. Cracks decorate their surfaces, yet somehow the flawed surfaces only make them appear more durable.

A slight shuffling beyond alerts me to someone—or three someones—moving about, the light thundering of their feet cladding along in unison. I breathe a light puff of smoke in disdain. Though the King may have placed great strength and efficiency into majority of his troops, when it comes down to prison guards, they're sadly lacking in such qualities. Even talking so casually as they do so is an invitation to be eavesdropped upon, and in such a scarcely good world, most things are best left unsaid. I feel but a brief flicker of hypocrisy for thinking such, though at least I am not the one who is discussing such delicate matters so openly.

With sudden realization, the three guards seem to remember their former duties, dispersing along the thin corridor just outside of my cell. Silence reigns supreme as their armored chests heave sighs of resignation; they, too, are not looking forward to yet another day of guarding the seemingly empty cell. I growl low in protest to this thought—that I have obtained by spying on the one called Armon's mind—and the guards stiffen noticeably. In almost practiced unison, their darkened-heads turn to face the small opening in the cell door. Perhaps, I muse, they can see me in here, though it is doubtful as they warily glance away.

I have been caged in here long enough to know that roughly a dozen yards separates myself—at the farthest eastern wall—from that door, and half that makes up the breadth of my dungeon. I am not disturbed by the darkness here; at least, no longer. The scarlet tinge veiling my vision provides me a limited viewing of my cell. This assurance has kept me contented to remain in here—well, tolerant is perhaps the more accurate word.

Free from aches, though, is not a mercy I am granted;__my face contorts in a grimace as I stretch. A cacophony of clinks resounds in the cell as the chains binding me groan in complaint. I'd give a lot to be able to just reach back and tear them apart. The binds around my throbbing wings are particularly irksome, though the thick one coiled tightly around my jaws is a close rival. I moan in irritation, startling the guards as the sound sends a rush of hot air from my lungs. The ___shushing _sound that escapes my jaws sounds little of a moan and more of a hiss, though I stoically ignore their murmured words of the Beast within.

A sudden thought occurs to me and, without further warning, I subtly slip into one of the guard's again.

From him—Marr—I glean that it is early morning. The sun has nigh on risen, a grim spectacle to those who must awaken themselves in the camps. There is never enough rest for them, I sense from the guard, who acknowledges such with a sense of trepidation. He is wise to be cautious; foolish words are fatal in the presence of your superior. And though it appears just he and two companions—both of which are near him in age—never are we alone in this keep.

Preparations are always being made; it seems there is an endless flow of chores and duties to attend. He worries for his own maiden back in Narda, though disinterest soon sets in and I withdraw from his mind. He spares a curious glance at the cell door before a shiver makes its way up his spine. I cannot help but grin slightly; perhaps a fearsome story to go alongside a hidden past would make a fine superstition to add beside the ones they have for Shruikan.

Before I can entertain the idea beyond a moment's thought, a low peal of agony breaks through the quiet. My gaze is instinctively drawn away from the door, head tilted away in something akin to shame. The tell-tale crack of a whip knifing through the air causes me to wince even before the hoarse cry of pain inevitably follows. The guards appear similarly unnerved as they reign in their expressions to mirroring blank ones. I wince sympathetically as the whip strikes again, though a flare of anger courses through me as well.

How can those guards just stand there, and pretend nothing is amiss? How could ___anyone _do such a thing? My lip curls back in a snarl, the low rumbling building in my chest drowned out by the victim's cries.

___Crack! _

___Crack! _

___Crack! _

The sharp, successive blows cause me to flinch back, though my wings quiver in outrage. And with a final, hideous scream, the sounds fade to nothing, and the quiet ___swish _of the whip being drawn through air seems to fill the space between us. My mind practically screams in vehemence, raging against such treatment. I see the tormentor before me, wielding the whip with that same arrogance that they all have, that same confidence that they have power—vast power—in the pain that they control. And though no one truly stands before me, my eyes narrow to slits and my snarl deepens accordingly.

With crushing force, my teeth grind together, not a mark appearing on their ivory tips. I wish the offender were here before me—if nothing else, I could burn him with steam. The King might be able to subdue my fire-breathing capabilities with special herbal concoctions, though it is impossible to entirely quench the fire within. I imagine the simmering, boiling anger within me searing the torturer's smug smile away from his face; imagine the same cry echoing from their lips; imagine the justice finally dealt.

The trembling in my limbs rattles the chains slightly as I gradually settle, glowering in silence. I need not check to see the soft clattering of the torturer's approach, his whip hanging loosely from a thin hand. That same cruel smile boasts the undeniable victory over the victim he has earned; the victory he shall always earn. "Morning, gentlemen," he greets, as cordially as a nobleman.

___Hah! Gentlemen, _I counter, sneering in the safety of the dark.__

Grunts of assent and muttered greetings answer as the guards straighten, one boldly asking, "Has his high King any news for us today?"

The lean man—just visible at the door of my cell—suddenly stiffens, though his wicked smile is unfaltering as he strokes his whip lovingly. "He requests," he begins slowly, "that the Beast be brought to him." His voice is a drawl, though his tone is clipped as he continues. "Immediately, if you please."

The three guards react with wary glances at one another. The broadest of them—Armon—speaks for them all. "You mean…" his calloused hand gestures vaguely backwards, directly towards where I lounge in pointed silence. The other nods curtly. Marr—the quietest—responds by walking over to my cell door, his movements slow and precise. The third—Naom—takes the news with solemn resolution as he turns to watch Marr. Warily inserting a key into the lock of my door, the resounding ___click _seems to hold great meaning as he presses the door open.

A loud growl of defiance lingers in the air as I glare frostily at the man holding the whip, unceremoniously barging into his mind and discovering his name—Myrn. Staggering back as though struck, Myrn grasps his whip more firmly, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he moves into my line of sight, silhouetted at the door's opening. He and I share a long, pointed glance before he sweeps around the corner and disappears from my sight wordlessly. I can hear his quiet retreat, a sense of grim satisfaction filling the ensuing quiet.

Marr, formerly frozen in place by the unspoken warring between Myrn and I, hesitantly approaches, bearing a guard's impassivity in only that he does not tremble in fear. His companions watch disapprovingly from the doorway, though grim acceptance shines on their drawn faces. I straighten as Marr draws closer yet, gazing down at him with narrowed eyes as my low rumbling continues. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture, silent pleading in his eyes that I go quietly as he gazes up deferentially at me.

Taking the final few steps closer, his hands reach forward cautiously. I snap my teeth in warning and he stumbles back several steps. Nervously, he comes closer again, and I lower my head only so that I might lock him in a penetrating stare. The nervousness in his eyes is clear, though mingled in with helpless obedience. He desires no more than I do to carry out this task. My appraisal complete, I lower my head slightly further, my eyes never faltering from their stare. I nudge my face forward slightly in permission to continue.

A relieved sigh escapes him as he tentatively begins to undue the chains binding my jaws, his hands fumbling several times in his haste. I remain silent throughout the one-sided exchange, though the moment the chains are free from my jaws I raise my head once more and glare down at him. Marr proceeds to my legs, my chest swelling with hot breath as the temptation is held so near. It would be no difficult task to burn him severely—perhaps a slight challenge to kill him, but not much at that. Still, the King is clever in that he knows I cannot do such. Killing the guard would only grant the King yet another excuse to beat me harder, and I shudder to even think of what he would do if I actually did something wrong.

With rough clicks, the chains clink to the ground, falling into slouched piles as the guard cautiously ventures onto those binding my hind legs. I twist around slightly to watch him as he awkwardly releases me from my bindings. Completing such, he backs away and strides out of the room, immensely relieved to be away from me.

At first, I remain standing where I am, the chains still pinioned tightly around my wings. Those, of course, are never removed—aside from the rare instances in which I am summoned on a mission alongside my Rider, Murtagh. But those are few and far between, and terribly fleeting at that. My legs seethe in protest as I take a slow step forward, the overlapping scars on their surface seeming to burn. My face is similarly scarred, though a particularly jagged cut crosses my neck diagonally. Overall, I suppose, you could call my condition pitiful, though I manage to move forward without complaint.

"Come along now," Armon beckons as he saunters off. Marr follows wordlessly, Naom close at their heels. I snort in exasperation before whirling around as something shuffles forward. The door at the far end of my cell closes with a soft ___bang, _my eyes narrowing once more as heavy breathing fills the air. I gaze forward, staring into the nothingness for several long moments before a dark form steps into the shallow light.

Obsidian glints clearly off it, its scales still blackened despite my crimson sight. Its demeanor is surprisingly regal, and a calming feeling exudes from it. Intelligence gleams in its dark onyx eyes, faint traces of indigo in them.

___Shruikan, _I breathe wonderingly, for he is more than thrice myself in size. The great dragon bows his head once in answer, otherwise silent.

___Greetings, hatchling, _he responds after a time.

* * *

******Saphira**

I yawn subtly as one of the dwarves leads us along, chattering happily away while Eragon nods politely and glances around at the camp. The stout man gestures here and there animatedly, occasionally drawing attention to a specific item before jumping back into a pleasant—if one-sided—conversation. I don't have the heart to point out that we've already seen the majority of this part of the encampment—the dwarven half, led under King Orik's command—and neither does Eragon, consequently. Apparently King Orik felt it necessary for us to be well-informed of the layout of the dwarves' section of the Varden's troops, despite our familiarity with them already.

Ah well. He's a good dwarf—with good intentions—just poorer execution of said-intentions. "We have to whet our swords with special stones or they'll shatter to a good blow," Orab—our guide—drabbled on. "Usually tougher gems work—if you were to use diamond, the sword would be nigh on stronger than an elf's!" His chest puffs out proudly, short spear clutched firmly in one rough hand. Eragon nods deferentially, though an amused chuckle escapes me as we continue. Orab keeps up a steady stream of explanations to supply ample talk, though my mind wanders as we pass the different tents. Other stocky dwarves pass us, occasionally murmuring a quick greeting though most regarding us with an air of disinterest.

Though Nasuada disapproves of our touring of the dwarven camps, it is a relief to be away from the constant politics of human culture. I am aware of the necessity of such exchanges, yet it seems that always—no matter the circumstance—things must be made a great deal more difficult simply to prove a point. And though I may view it as a ridiculous system, I am forced to concede under the alliances we hold. In short, it would not be worth the argument, and thus I do not bring it up.

But still, I cannot help but think how much more efficiently things could be run. It's good to have friends such as Solembum who can relate to such exasperating things, though even he is powerless to affect the unusual routine humans share when it comes to making decisions. Hours wasted deliberating over unimportant matters makes for a very dull, very long day. Luckily the last meetings of the day are typically those gathered with figures such as Angela-the-witch-herbalist and King Orrin-the-experimenter. Though, the only thing usually accomplished in those discussions are whether or not the existence of frogs is even meaningful and if blowing smoke rings out of your ears could be used as a weapon.

I laugh quietly in bemusement as Eragon nearly trips over his own two feet, the brief lapse in his coordination missed by our exuberant host. He nods toward something while Eragon shares a sheepish glance with myself. I snort once softly in retort, though he just turns back to the dwarf and attempts to listen without appearing too disinterested.

Thin, hazy clouds float lazily over head, shadowing a faint golden sun. Vultures circle hungrily from a distance, their black wings ragged and balding in places. Their low keening adds to the grim mutterings and sour curses of men and women alike, shields battering against themselves and swords clashing and unsheathing clearly. The constant shuffling and padding and even thundering of men, dwarves, and elves alike creates a cacophony of noise that cannot possibly be ignored. Though, even amidst it, it is ominously quiet, as though Orab, Eragon, and myself are truly the only ones here.

The grim, resigned faces of those we pass reflect such a feeling, haggard expressions fully displaying their true weariness. We all long for a good rest—even with the encouragements, there is little doubt that we're all aching, we're all hurting some.

When the dwarf leads us back full circle to near Nasuada's tent—sentries being two large Kull—I sigh silently in something akin to relief, carefully hiding the gesture from the beaming dwarf as Eragon cordially thanks him. Bustling away to attend to some other task, the dwarf disappears from sight quickly. With a tired smile, Eragon comments, ___Nice dwarf, but we really don't have time for tours. _

I raise an eyebrow speculatively, a draconic smile curling my lips. ___I'm not complaining; less time sitting around listening to the councilors argue about how to do something. _To that Eragon chuckles lightly, shaking his head as he relieves me of the heavy saddle settled on my back. I stretch, satisfied. ___Glad to have that off. _

___Heavy? _he asks sympathetically as he struggles under its weight for several moments before placing it near the side of the tent. I shake my head.

___Not really; it's just annoying to carry. _I shake myself swiftly to clear some of the dry dust gathered over myself. The Burning Plains—driest, hottest, and one of the most uncomfortable places in Alagaësia. The cloudy dust swirling overhead seems to perpetually block the full shine of sun, though ample heat wafts down below. I breathe in heartily, my nose scrunching up slightly in distaste.

Eragon glances at me appraisingly as he sorts through a pack in search of something. ___What? Don't tell me you're outgrowing it already, _he comments as he picks the timepiece from his sack, examining the small device nonchalantly. __

___Watch it, _I growl playfully. He holds up his hands in defeat, grinning.

___I'm just saying. _

___Mmm. _

With a last, dubious glance at Eragon and his politely baffled expression, I laugh, the sound gravelly though somehow light. ___Come along; I'm sure Nasuada needs us for one thing or another, _I add, musing.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair and reluctantly considering my words. With a grudging nod, he agrees, ___I suppose. _

No sooner is the thought proposed that a familiar—rather animalistic-looking—figure strides toward us, bearing a strange, feral resemblance to a wild-cat. Wielding an elaborate sword of fine silver and bearing a shield on one arm, Blödhgarm approaches with the regality of one who is certain that they hold acclaim. ___Blödhgarm, _I greet, the elf bowing his head in acknowledgement. Eragon and he exchange a quick, formal greeting before the animal-like elf speaks.

"Your Lady Nasuada wishes a word with you," he states, voice a low rumble. "She wishes to speak to you—both—in private. It is of the utmost importance."

"When?"

"As soon as you are available," Blödhgarm answers dutifully. Both Eragon and I bow our heads slightly in nods.

"All right. Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Then thank you, Blödhgarm-elda."

The elf bows his head as well, and with a brief dismissal, departs to attend to other things. ___He must've been in a hurry, _I comment offhandedly.

___Oh? How can you tell? _

I shrug. ___He didn't care to speak very long. _

Eragon laughs slightly as he pats my shoulder affectionately. ___Well, it appears we're needed elsewhere as well. I think we should go see Nasuada before we miss out on anything too important. _

___What a crime that would be, _I point out with a slightly sarcastic edge to my voice.

Shaking his head, Eragon starts off toward Nasuada's tent, myself close at his heels.

0

"Knowledge is only potential power."

-___Napoleon Hill_

******Thorn**

The Black Dragon—___Shruikan_—stares judgmentally at me, trying to decide whether it is truly worth his time or not.

I shuffle awkwardly under his appraisal, a low rumble of disapproval stilling me. His black gaze lingers on the scars crisscrossing on my neck and back, his own neck craning forward slightly to get a better look. Instinctively, I back away, my stance lowering into a half-crouch as I glare back at him fearlessly. There is no malice in his gaze, however, as he calmly dismisses my sudden aggression and moves on to view the roughened surface of my wings. Nodding once to himself in something of affirmation, he takes a halting step backward.

___Hatchling, _he rumbles again, and this time it seems that a note of sadness rings true in his voice. I cannot be certain, however, under the scrutinizing gaze which he has me. With a very slight bow of my head, I raise it again and stare up at him.

___Why are you here?_ I prompt at last, sighing quietly. His breathing seems to be a continuous roll of thunder as he considers my question, his chest swelling and contracting periodically. Strangely enough, the typical scarlet edge that coats most objects seems to shy away from him, leaving his colossal form relatively hidden. His eyes are the most prevalent, twin black orbs that glower meaningfully. Something about his expression—though apparently blank—suggests thoughtful, and perhaps even inquisitive. A particularly loud rumble issues from his throat as he dips his head solemnly.

___If you must know, you might as well be seated. It could take a while. _

He fixes me with an unblinking stare as I silently defy him, eventually conceding as I crouch slowly and settle against the wall, body tensed in case he decides to turn on me. As he towers above me, I can almost see how the guards would think of him as the Black Dragon rather than Shruikan—certainly he is the blackest creature I have ever seen, and undoubtedly intimidating. Names offer solace to people—the assurance that somewhere, no matter how deep, we're all connected by our humanity.

At least, as human as we all can be.

He paces, enormous feet padding along softly despite his tremendous size. Never once do my eyes stray from him, though his gaze remains fixed on some unseen object. After several moments, his voice echoes like muted thunder as he speaks. ___The Varden have been attempting to steal our egg for a time now, _he begins, ___as they have succeeded with only one another. Once was once too many for their success; and so we are bringing the egg here, to be left in my care. _He growls low in something akin to irritation as I watch him, surprised by his sudden explanation. ___I cannot say to you where it is held now, nor how we are bringing it here—and certainly not where I shall be safeguarding it. _He snorts in dull amusement. __

___Then why have you come? _I ask boldly.

He pauses, the air around him heavy with an unknown importance. ___Thorn, _he continues, in all sincerity.___ Are you aware of what occurred the last time one of the eggs escaped our care? _

And for the first time since he appeared, my glare mellows and my expression falls blank. It is the unspoken acceptance that I should be as ignorant as possible, and so information that I am given is often few and far between. The King would never dare to tell me any more than he absolutely must, and of that almost all is orders and oaths. Perhaps a word or two aside, and then whatever I manage to gain from the guards. To be openly offered new information—with no hint of deception in his face—has me stunned for several moments. He chuckles, though the sound feels oddly hollow. And in that mirthless laugh, I can see the exact opposite of what I feel.

Ignorance is kindness in its own way, for knowledge is what is destroying the dragon before me.

I shake my head mutely, feeling quite small before him.

___I was punished, _he answers finally, ___by Galbatorix. _

The significance of that word has me on my feet immediately, a hiss of fear lingering between us as phantom pain courses through me. With a cool glance, the Black Dragon stares at me without pity, waiting as I struggle in heated silence with the unrelenting pain. Finally, the effects of ___his _name drift away, leaving me shaky and uneasy. I sit heavily on the ground, glaring up at him as I snarl defensively. ___Do not call him that, _I snap, more out of worry for the pain returning than any honor towards his name.

The Black Dragon merely smiles at me—a surprisingly sympathetic one—and utters an unrecognizable stream of words. ___I apologize for that. It is easy to forget the true extent of your bindings at times, _he admits after finishing.

It is true—for so many oaths are sworn upon mine and Murtagh's name that even speaking is hazardous if it is mentioning him. His name is forbidden to us—even thinking of the King as anything but such triggers immense pain. If the name itself is uttered by another, the pain is only slightly less, though still searing.

It's just one of many ways he controls us.

___What were you saying? _I quest, still on edge. He smiles draconically, though deep sorrow coats his voice as he resumes speaking.

___I was supposed to keep the eggs safe—by Galbatorix's orders. _I cringe, yet to my astonishment, only a slight tingle rushes up my spine. Perhaps irritating, but nowhere near the earlier sting. I glance gratefully up at him, though he ignores the gesture and continues. ___Who else was more qualified? Guards? Bah. Guards can't guard a loaf of bread if you try them. Urgals are no help either, and the Shade was never trustable to such a task. _

___So the task fell to me. _

His gaze drifts downward, eventually settling on the ground. Shame colors his face. ___I was foolish to have left them for even an hour, though I was summoned by the Shade and thus forced to oblige. Luckily, I escaped any cruelties he might have delivered to me, though I was too late to reclaim the eggs. _He sighs ruefully. ___Your egg—and your brother's—were still there. Miraculously, I admit, considering one egg had already been stolen. I searched in vain for hours, but it was gone. _

A pained expression crosses his features before he hides it. ___Galbatorix was not pleased with my carelessness. _

Though his voice is still authoritative and cool, it is clear that even mentioning such is unsettling for him. For a moment, pity washes over me as I stare at that confused expression on his face. It is not a lack of understanding that I see there. In fact, it is the vast amount of comprehension that reflects on his expression that tells me he is not tortured by ignorance—but again, ___knowledge_.

For a hesitant moment, I wish that I had never asked.

___Galbatorix never entrusted the eggs to my care again, _he continues, gazing down at me, ___until your egg was nearly lost as well. _

I blink in surprise, though my expression remains otherwise stoic. ___Feeling that it was still far safer in my care than theirs, he gave me the egg for safekeeping. When your Rider—Murtagh—came along and touched your egg, I relinquished my safeguarding of your egg as you hatched. _

He pauses and I fill the silence with a question. ___What of my brethren—the green egg? _

A mirthless chuckle escapes him. ___I do not know myself, but I know that soon again it shall be my duty to guard it. _He sighs deeply. ___Be forever grateful you don't have to do it. _

___Why? _

He shakes his head ruefully. ___You cannot be blamed for losing it. _And like a retreating serpent, he turns and vanishes, the wall shifting aside slightly to allow him entrance.

I stare after him in confusion, feeling no more informed than when he came. The mental image of his pained expression—brought upon by the realization, the ___knowing_—flashes through my mind and instead of annoyance, gratitude washes over me.

Resting my head on my paws, I wonder why he would bother to speak with me—even though it accomplished pitifully little.

___I suppose everyone just needs someone to talk to once in a while, _I conclude, a hint of a smile on my face.

* * *

******Saphira **

The light padding of my feet coupled with Eragon's allow our minds to slip into disinterested states. I can tell he is worrying himself over certain issues, particularly the revelations of his family. Though tempted, I resist the urge to tell him that it is really not worth the hassle to fret over who is or is not his father. Perhaps it is just some dragon practice not to bother oneself over the identity of our sires and dams. After all, what is the use in berating ourselves over the crime of someone else?

But apparently I am wrong in this aspect, for Eragon unrelentingly chastises himself as we walk along. In the absence of our gregarious dwarven guide, an odd silence seems to pervade, broken by the rhythmic shuffling and padding and grunting of the camp. Tents of a scratchy tan material are erected in uneven rows, well-trodden grounds separating them. Occasionally, a figure ducks outside of the tent flap, glancing around with a dour air about them before retreating back inside. Of course, the air here is so dry and humid that it is no relief to breathe in. Still, the necessity to be here quells most complaints, a disgruntled member sometimes daring to voice their protests. Usually these are dealt with swiftly and efficiently, sufficient punishment being used to silence them.

A blanket of hot, reddish-brown air cloaks the desert before us, deeply set with gold. The pregnant clouds hover, occasionally battering us anew with harsh winds and fierce sands. No respite is offered to us, however, as they continue their fruitless promises of rain. The endless dunes ahead—broken sporadically by gaseous holes—are constant reminders that here rain is scarce. Surda seems a welcome haven compared to the desperately barren land of the Burning Plains. Even vultures are absent from stealing a meal from some of the fallen.

With sudden clarity, I can feel the deathly pallor that lingers over the camp, graying our spirits and poisoning our minds with hopelessness. Forced enthusiasm glints on the passerby's face, yet it is clear that remorse and fear of the future are there as well. No one can deny it, nor can anyone drive it away. The fear of a worthless cause—of a ___futile _cause—can be far more destructive than any blade.

My nose scrunches up distastefully as the ghastly smoke from the pyre—distanced several leagues away so as not to disturb the camp too terribly—wafts towards us on a dry breeze. The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils. I wince slightly, ruffling my wings as though to dispel the unwanted scent. Eragon's steps become more halted, his head bowing slightly. Through his thoughts, I can sense the grave note to them. The disgust at the disposal of the dead rings clear, sadness lacing his mulling.

___All will be fine, _I encourage, though the gravity of the situation seems to douse any support I wish to lend. He grunts once.

___Doubtful, _he replies dourly.

I sigh—impossible, he is. But there's no point in worrying myself over his own stubbornness, so I decidedly ignore him until the familiar pair of Urgals enters our sight. With forced impassivity, Eragon warily exchanges a quick greeting with them, avoiding the customary head-butting that both wisely let slip by. He does, however, cross an arm over his chest, the universal sign of friendship between war-comrades, and offers an approving nod. The two grunt their acknowledgments, pressing gauntleted fists to burly chests in response. In almost practiced unison, they resume positions, Eragon brushing aside the tent-flap and disappearing within. Left alone to my musing—as the tent is far too small to admit one such as myself—I situate myself nearby, watching the guards with thoughtful blue eyes.

An animalistic stink radiates from them—not an unpleasant smell, but rather that of dirt and woods and grass. Of deep fall afternoons, spending long hours under the shade of thick junipers; of staunch summer days, sweating and laboring beneath a penetrating sun. Grayed skin covered mostly in hides of some strange bear-fur, their muscled arms and legs are trunk-like, supporting their bulk without complaint. Gruff faces stare out, unperturbed, to the rest of the world, though a keen sense of awareness radiates from them. An oddly casual feel surrounds them, as though standing guard is the most comfortable, natural position they must bear. Even the way they clutch their weapons—a rapier for one and a nasty spear for the other—is relaxed, if firm.

___Brutish, perhaps not, _I think, reminiscing from the first impressions of them I gained from Eragon. Even though the alliance had been made, there was never true acceptance from him. The same distrust was readily expressed by others, though they wisely held their tongues. I spare a brief glance at their horned heads, the coarse brown hair scattered over it surprisingly well kempt. Overall, they appear more warriors than beasts—I cock my head inquisitively, wondering.

___What are your names?_ I ask, my voice startling them from their watchful stupor. The larger of the two—though hardly, mere inches separating him in height and less in muscle—glances over at me with a look of slight surprise.

"Bjartskular," he rumbles, the sound gravelly and strange. The elvin word rolls off his tongue oddly, though his companion merely watches me as though the name were pronounced perfectly.

___What are your names? _I repeat when it seems none are forthcoming. The first hesitates, knuckles grazing his spear as he switches it to his opposite hand. Bowing his head very slightly, he grunts, and rather than submission, I sense disquiet.

"Vor Laurk," he answers in the same emotionless tone.

I glance at his companion expectantly, who responds almost eagerly, "Vor Merrn."

Bobbing my head in a nod, I can hear the natural chatter arising from inside the tent. King Orrin is present, I sense, as his inquiring voice offers questions muffled by the tarp. Nasuada is also at hand, for her muted voice occasionally poses a question as well. It seems that Jormundur—aided by another I do not recognize—offers most of the answers, dutifully relying reports. Bored of such talk, I return my attention to the guards still regarding me rather warily.

___Is Vor your clan? _I prompt, attempting to perhaps breach the impassive walls they've constructed around their emotions. I can sense the hardness to Vor Laurk's thoughts, though his tone is almost genial as he replies.

"Yes, and no. Our clan has suffered many a tragedy—we live now to serve Lady Nightstalker alone."

"There are few of us left," Vor Merrn offers helpfully.

___What happened to your clan?_

Laurk appears reluctant, though Merrn merely grunts before answering. "___Father. _It is he who pitted our clan—our best rams and inferiors alike—against your warriors, and in the end it is he who abandoned us. Clan Myn has not suffered quite as poorly, though Clan Olm is not heard from."

To this, I raise an eyebrow. ___What do you mean?_

"He means," Laurk interrupts stiffly, "that Olm has chosen not to participate in this war at all, instead isolating themselves."

___I thought all your clans were allied with us? _

Confusion sweeps over me, though I force my expression to remain unaffected aside from a slight frown. Neither Eragon nor I were aware of the possibility that the Urgals might not ally themselves with us—at least, not after the apparent alliances were made. With a band of Urgals that were potentially unfriendly around, it proposed new difficulties.

"No," Laurk continues, surprisingly grave. "But we are fairly certain that—from word of nomads—they have been dealt with by ___Father_."

Even though the name is spat with distaste, the sorrowful expression that suddenly crosses both Urgals' faces leaves me at a loss for further questions. Despite their curt ways, the humanness in them is undeniable. The emotional connection they share, at least, is the same, and for a moment pity sweeps over me. ___I'm sorry to hear of that,_ I add, hoping to offer the slightest of solace.

Their callous silence is answer enough and I have not a moment to spare on that thought before another presence becomes distinct in my mind. ___Saphira, can you, ah, come in? _

The thought catches me off guard and I climb to my feet slowly, staring at the Urgal pair and then at the tent flap guarded between them. ___Probably not, _I admit.

___Is it possible you can just stick your head in? Nasuada insists you see this as well, _Eragon replies, a curious note in his voice. With a strange snort of disagreement, I glance at the guards doubtfully before snaking my head inside slowly.

A tight fit—I can hear some of the tarp tearing in part—but thankfully I manage to do so well enough. The dark interior is mercifully clear, as though the air here has been purged of all dryness and cruel sand. I breathe in expansive gulps, my chest rising and falling like a bellows. With a sudden, explosive breath, I back slightly, nose twitching.

Eragon chuckles from one corner, drawing my bewildered gaze. ___You sneezed, _he explains with another quiet chuckle. I frown very slightly before rolling my eyes in a feeble attempt to regain lost dignity. Dragons do not sneeze—whatever sneezing is.

"Greetings, Saphira," the light, pleasant voice of Nasuada says, bowing her head in a nod. Her eyes—though bright with anticipation—are tired, her face drowsy from hours of endless working. Her thin arms cross delicately over the thick wooden table that is spread out in the center of the tent. Around her shoulders is a dark-copper tunic, underlined by a white shirt with laced edges. Her leggings are of the same dark material, though a ring of silver adorns them, adding a regality to her appearance. Her hair is pinned back in a loose bun, as though to stave off some of the outside heat. "King Orrin here," she gestures to the plump man beside her, "discovered that by leaving out a jar of a certain mixture of elvin herbs and water, the dryness in the air is reduced."

The eccentric king beams slightly under the praise, though he still holds himself nobly in a thin, comfortable set of dark azure robes. Bowing his head once, he adds, "Even the elves have not thought of such a device. And made from simple herbs!" He shakes his head, clearly pleased with his own ingeniousness. Glancing skeptically at Nasuada, I wait in pointed silence for her to bring up that which she has summoned both Eragon and now myself for. With a brief glance around, I notice Jormundur's absence, though to this I pay little heed.

Sobered, Nasuada reaches behind herself for something, returning with her hands clasped gently around a bound scroll. The parchment is heavily weathered, stains covering near every inch of it. A thin, scraggly string binds the paper together feebly, though with the lightest of tugs, Nasuada unfurls it. Both Eragon and King Orrin lean slightly in their chairs, curious. "A messenger," begins Nasuada, "delivered this to us only a day or so ago. Apparently," here she references the scroll directly, a thin finger tracing the writing delicately, "a scouting commission was sent out whilst the soldiers camped at Feinster."

Silence. Even I lean further in to catch the dark-skinned woman's words as she continues. "They reached Urû'baen with the assistance of a man I'm sure you are familiar with—Jeod." I raise an eyebrow in mild surprise. "They disobeyed orders by setting out on such a futile mission, though they slipped past our guard under cover of night. Amidst the process of tallying the dead and creating the pyre, we hadn't noticed their absence. Until—" she waves the parchment slightly "—we received this."

She clears her throat quietly and I wait, as do Eragon and King Orrin, for her to continue. "They reached Urû'baen," she reads solemnly, "and better, they say, they even reached grounds just before Urû'baen's heart—the castle." A startled exclamation—caught between a choke and a cry—bursts forth from King Orrin as he stumbles over words. Nasuada holds up a hand patiently and he quiets. "As expected, most of their sentry perished—some of Galbatorix's soldiers had discovered them and dispatched them swiftly."

A very soft sigh of disappointment comes from Eragon, though I continue staring at Nasuada as her face lightens once more. "But in the slaughter of our people, there was great confusion. Jeod, it appears, seized the opportunity with two companions to slay two of the Empire's soldiers amidst the chaos and don their armor. They camped with the soldiers there—before Urû'baen—for three nights before they managed to slip into the castle itself."

"What?" King Orrin bursts, stuttering.

"It is said that Jeod led them to the chamber where formerly they were to capture the eggs," Nasuada resumes, unhindered, "and discovered nothing. By a stroke of luck, they survived by staying there for a night, and then resuming their search. Eventually," here she pauses, for emphasis or out of grief I cannot tell, "Jeod and the other were slain, though the third member managed to discover something very, very important."

Again, Nasuada reaches behind her, and the silence of not even breathing seems thousands times greater than it is as her hand returns, again holding parchment.

"This," she concludes, spreading the large scroll before them, "is a map of Urû'baen's castle."

Before any of us can respond, however, she traces the edge of a spot, where a splotched mark is scarred. "And this—this is where the last dragon egg is supposedly being held."

0

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another."

-___Anatole France_

******Shruikan **

___Melancholy_.

Perhaps it is just the nature of myself—perhaps it is just the story of my life. Either way, I am indulging myself in it. Some would call it foolish to constantly torment myself so; to constantly drown out hopes and sulk. I do it—not to be purposefully stupid or blind to all and any good—but to weep for myself a bit as I lengthen my last moments of glorious solitude. My feet touch the cold stone—so alike, I and that stone are—and I wish only to fall to it and rest and forget my other obligations.

And yet, extraordinarily, I am satisfied.

I am not satisfied for myself—heaven forbid that I find something in my cursed life ___satisfying_—but rather that there is a life that exists to which I might influence. Might save from this final damnation.

All too soon, though, the cold corridors—narrow and slick in these late summer months—come to an end. My feet unconsciously carry me forward, my serpentine form twisting elastically around corners and past thick stone walls. Everywhere, shadows are cast in deep relief, showing with an almost wicked glint that only fuels my inner anger. It is as though the candlelight shown from the torches is mocking me—ridiculing me for a life I did not want or deserve.

I growl low in return, though the stone gives no response.

Eventually, I am offered reprieve from my stiff walk—a deep wall gapes open, revealing an even darker room within. There is no apparent light to be seen, though I march forward fearlessly into the blackness. Already, it seems, the air chills—a deadened feel lingers menacingly. I sigh slightly, melancholic.

If not for the evils of these world, there would be no reason for such dreary things as melancholy. There would be no sorrow to linger over; no deaths to mourn. There would be no such a thing as tragedy, nor would there be oppression. And yet it is ultimately melancholy which we use to shape ourselves—use to decide whether or not it is worth it to continue or if the darkness in our life deserves victory. Though torturous, melancholy is soothing, numbing, dulling for one who seeks only a way away from the pain. Or better—an answer to end it.

"Shruikan," a voice purrs, interrupting my thoughts. A snarl rumbles in my throat, though I tighten my jaw. Calm. I cannot kill him, so I must be calm. When I sense impatience radiate from him, I lock away my pride and bow my head submissively.

___Greetings, Galbatorix, _I respond, forcing cordiality to my tone.

The soft padding of footsteps approaches, and soon the hazy edges of a striking man become apparent. Blurred obsidian clings to his form, enhancing the shadows around him while dimming his piercing black eyes. A hint of silver glints there, though rather than welcome, they reflect malice. His attire is simple, yet somehow noble—striking blue linings adding sharp contrast to his black tunic and breeches. A ruffled cream shirt peeks out slightly from beneath his tunic, though he does not move to fix the slip. Instead, the unkemptness—though hardly—of his appearance seems to only enlarge his feral demeanor.

A sour taste teases my tongue at the sight of him, lips curling down in disgust. Instead of dismayed, a sadistic smile glints on the man's face. He is a giant amongst human standards—as tall as an Urgal and muscled leanly like a seasoned soldier. His arms fall loosely at his sides, connected to brawny shoulders that are relaxed yet firm. A silver hilt is obscured slightly by his left hand, resting in a seemingly casual gesture overtop it. The onyx sword sheathed within is belted to his waist, ready at any moment to strike.

The bumptious aura around him is unmistakable—glowing particularly cold on his face. Cropped black hair crowns his head, shadowing a pair of smooth eyebrows and a forever furrowed brow. His ears—though hidden—are tapered, the slight tips hinted from beneath.

___What do you want me for now? _I ask, trying to keep the disdain from my voice. Though his expression is unaffected, his demeanor darkens.

"Eager, are we? Well, there shall be plenty of time for eagerness later." Striding coolly over to a just visible throne of onyx, he adds calmly, "Though if you must know I do not appreciate you filling the poor hatchling with hope. Hope is such a tragic, fragile thing that mustn't be given."

I hiss involuntarily, the sound venomous and overly loud in the otherwise silence. Somewhere vermin frantically dart away, terrified. The breath catches in my throat, constricting until I can scarcely breathe—in a subdued panic, I lash my tail against the stone floor in protest. Finally, I am forced to cry out: ___Stop! _

A cruelly amused chuckle fills the ensuing quiet, the man's light laughter almost sincere. Still, the hard edge is impossible to ignore, and I slowly lower myself to the flow to steady my shaking limbs. Dragons cannot tolerate such tortures as well as we would like to believe—and appear to be. Even we must crumple sometimes.

"Ah, Shruikan," he says, as though a father reprimanding a naughty child, "when will you ever learn? Poor manners will get you no where, for sure." Pausing, he glances down at me with a revoltingly pleasant smile. I cringe back instinctively from him as he saunters closer, unafraid. "Now, as you are aware, we've been bothered for many months by the ___Varden, _and so I have decided to entrust in your care a very valuable piece."

I cannot meet his eyes any longer and I stare blankly at the floor, sobered. How can he so easily confer to me this information? How can he so easily condemn me? "All you must do is safeguard it until the female comes and we capture her. Beyond that, we will need no further use of it." My eyes narrow suddenly; ___You plan to destroy it? _I cannot stop myself from asking. He chuckles darkly.

"Why of course. What use is one male when I have two under my command? I only need the purposes of one, and a third would just be an unneeded waste that could be to our enemy's use. No—it must, and shall, be destroyed once the time comes."

___Why not use it—_I hate the words I say, of ___using _one of my brethren, but I find that I must defend my unborn kin—___for further building the Riders? Surely the red hatchling cannot produce enough eggs for a new Forsworn—it would be much simpler to just have him and her mate and then come the maturity of their hatchlings, have the green one decide on a mate of his own. _

Disgust wells within me at the thought of the red dragon—so tormented, I can see, by the way we have dealt with him—being used for such vile purposes. An ever sourer taste comes to the thought of the female being put to similar uses. I realize that it is bile in my throat and force myself to swallow and appear disinterested. Interest can be the greatest of weaknesses when it comes to convincing your opponent.

"Ah, but surely you might fill his place? You may even have her first, if it so pleases you," he all but trills. My eyes narrow, a growl rumbling in my chest. "Come; don't tell me you don't wish to have her as your own," he comments, raising an eyebrow naughtily. "I've seen your thoughts, Shruikan, and know of the fantasies you entertain. Think of how wonderful it would be to have her with you, wanting—"

___Stop! _I am surprised at my boldness, though there is a deep furor in my voice that I cannot contain. ___You will not discuss of her for such uses, _I growl, ___or if you do, not in my presence. I will not do that to her—no matter your order. _

He shrugs, surprisingly unperturbed. "So be it. The red hatchling shall fulfill his part of the bargain, and then if you are truly reluctant, I might consider the green one's part in such. You are dismissed. Though, remember; don't bother fill the poor beast with hope. It's not worth your time or effort." He ghosts back over to his throne, having somehow initiated a pace during our argument. I shuffle in awkward protest, wishing to speak but not daring to do so. It seems that chains bound more firmly than any iron secure my jaws from speaking, and shamefully, I retreat.

"Do you forget what I say to you so easily?" his voice asks from behind me, hard yet somehow still curious. I turn slowly to face him once more, jaw slackening and eyes widening as he withdraws a large, emerald orb from beneath his throne. I cannot see from where, though my eyes remain fixed on the smooth, glowing jade egg clutched between his scrawny fingers. Slowly, I approach, still wary of deceit. "Amusing, isn't it?" he continues, pretending to examine the stone with a smile that could rival the Cheshire cat's.

___You kept it underneath your throne this entire time? _I ask, bewildered. His booming laughter fills the chamber, a hand stroking the stone's smooth surface almost admiringly.

"No," he says once he's settled, "but for long enough. Well? Are you going to just stare at it or what?" The sudden coldness in his tone catches me off guard, though my stare unflinching remains on the egg. It's glow is particularly bright in such a dark room—almost blindingly so. I approach, though my steps are halted and cautious.

With a sudden, careless toss, he relinquishes the egg to myself. I catch it hastily in my jaws, craning my neck forward to do so. Galbatorix watches my unsteady catch with bored eyes, unconcerned of the potential damage he could be causing to the hatchling within. I can sense waves of unease from the egg, though I calm it with a hasty assurance of ___It's fine; I have you. _My own voice, however, is a terrible assurance, for it glowers with hate. Still, the terror from within diminishes, and soon I, too, have recollected myself.

"You are to let no one see it," the tyrant before me drawls, "and no one know you have it. If anyone has so much as a hunch—kill them."

I nod once, though my heart sinks with dismay. Safeguarding this egg, I know, shall not be an easy—or admirable task. As I exit the room, I can only wonder how I might save the dragon within. Melancholy again surfaces in my thoughts, though this time it is with grim acceptance. If I cannot see past this despair that now shrouds my mind—of so many wrongs thrust upon me—then I can only pray that the hatchlings are not ruined because of it.

* * *

******Saphira**

The silence grows longer, the air tenser as we all exchange wary glances.

Before us is spread a splotched, stained, and otherwise battered map—yet the intricate patterns traced upon it cannot be diminished by the physical imperfections. It is a labyrinth in appearance, full of intersecting paths and perhaps hundreds of thin lines that represent pathways. Near the far left edge, the map becomes blurred and indistinct, eventually fading to nothing. The immense detail of the rest of it, however, has us all agape and speechless. Scrawled in elegant strokes near the end of the page is a single name—___Urû'baen. _

"How—how can this be?" Orrin stutters in disbelief. Eragon's silence is equally shocked.

Nasuada merely shakes her head, thin finger hovering over the paper meaningfully. I lean over slightly to better view the spot, reeling back involuntarily in surprise.

For it is not one of the many winding corridors, or twisted cells, or even just empty spaces that lie there. Instead, a black, unmistakable shape is curled against an ebony throne.

___Shruikan, _I observe solemnly. Eragon nods in silent agreement while Orrin pales; Nasuada reacts only in the slightest of nods before allowing her hand to drift back towards herself, folding her arms once more.

"It's hard to say whether this is good or bad news," she acknowledges slowly, drawing Eragon's disheartened and Orrin's astonished gazes. Shrugging a shoulder mildly, she runs a finger over the parchment wonderingly. "Strange that Galbatorix would keep a map in the first place," she murmurs, almost to herself. I nod silently in agreement, though Eragon leans back in his chair and sighs.

"Well, it doesn't matter. If ___Shruikan _is truly holding the egg, there's no way we're getting it." I glare sternly at him, snorting a puff of clear smoke, though he shrugs in response. "Think about it, Saphira."

And unfortunately, I do. An enormous black dragon—one trained and weathered to kill dragons—appears in my mind's eye. He is stronger than I could hope to be, and swifter than Glaedr was. He is emboldened by my terror—even though he does not see it—and his savage heart begs for blood. I see a black-hearted monster there—a horror that is far too large, too dark to dare combat.

I shiver wordlessly.

___There is hope yet, _I offer, trying to be encouraging. Nasuada nods firmly in agreement, though Eragon remains sulky. ___In fact, if we can lure Shruikan from the castle, it might be easier than we previously thought. _

"Lure Shruikan from the castle," Eragon snorts, more dismayed than angry. "Unlikely."

___But possible, _I add.

"What if you two went to ___him_?" Orrin proposes boldly. Both Eragon and I turn on him with stern glances of protest and he shrinks back slightly, coughing delicately into a sleeve. Poor man—to be reprimanded by both dragon and Rider. But still, I cannot agree more on this one. "Just offering," he adds feebly.

"Perhaps he's right."

Surprised, I glance at Nasuada, waiting dubiously for her explanation. "We have a map of Urû'baen—the castle, at least," she elaborates, "and thus a way to get inside. We could dismantle Galbatorix from the inside, if planned correctly."

"What if the map is a decoy?" the brown-haired boy across from her protests. "It wouldn't be unwise for Galbatorix to have left such a thing, and certainly possible."

But just looking at the map sprawled before us, both mine and Eragon's doubts falter. Far too much detail is put into it—and an even more undeniable aspect lingers around it. ___Age. _Certainly amidst the war Galbatorix would not have the time to reconstruct his castle, and thus this—if not false—___must_ be the true map. I shift slightly, considering. Outside, I can sense the Urgals growing slightly disgruntled by my presence that prevents them from standing at their usual guard.

"This is the real map," Nasuada affirms, "though we're blind to Shruikan's position, and Galbatorix's, for that matter."

___Too risky, _I point out. ___Especially for us. And we cannot risk sending anyone else for fear of losing them as well. _I glance pointedly at Nasuada, waiting for her argument. Instead, she is silent.

Then: "I suppose you're right, but is this not a risky time which we live in?" The answer startles the three of us—Orrin, Eragon, and myself alike.

"This could very well be the best thing we have to obtaining the green egg," she continues, emboldened apparently by our silence, "and certainly easier than trying to steal it from them in battle. If we were to send yourselves and several others there, you could do so quietly and save us a great deal of trouble."

"Galbatorix will know we're there," Eragon protests.

"The others managed to slip by," Nasuada calmly dissuades, "without problem. And Saphira's egg was stolen by a lucky third on the original mission. How difficult could it be for yourselves to shield against him and enter?"

"Very," Eragon warns. "Galbatorix wouldn't worry himself over some soldiers—especially ones incapable of using magic—but a dragon and her rider are a bit harder to conceal. Besides, how would you expect us to steal the egg from Shruikan once we arrived—not mentioning without alerting Galbatorix in the first instance?"

Nasuada pauses, evidently set back by Eragon's arguments. Even I must admit that the odds are highly improbable we would manage to do such a task—attempting just seems futile and foolish. "If you could escape Galbatorix's detection, could you handle stealing the egg from Shruikan?" she asks, suddenly fierce.

I blink in surprise and Eragon frowns slightly. "I suppose," he hedges. "But how, exactly, do you plan to escape Galbatorix's detection?"

Instead of answering, Nasuada dips a finger toward the sapphire ring situated on his finger. "If you were to cast a shielding spell—with sufficient energy to fuel it—then you would, in theory, be able to walk about undetected?"

Eragon frowns, glancing at the ring in something not unlike trepidation. With a slight nod, he agrees, "It's possible, I suppose. But even Aren cannot hold enough energy to shield both Saphira and myself that long…"

"You do not need to shield long," the dark-skinned woman dismisses. "Just long enough to get inside the castle. Beyond that and you'll have to be on your own for hiding your mind."

"That's the problem, though. How am I supposed to—with Saphira—remain undetected? Surely Galbatorix would sense our presences…"

___Perhaps I can be of assistance, _rumbles a deep voice, entering our minds like the voice of some divine being. I start, glancing around in surprise.

___Glaedr-ebrithil? _I ask in barely concealed astonishment.

The growl of approval emphasizes a 'yes' as he voices the same. Pausing, he adds: ___I could assist you in keeping yourselves hidden—my strength is yours to use at your discretion. _

___But Glaedr—_I try to protest. He silences me with a swift mental jab, the equivalent of a light nudge.

___Be not afraid of what lies within—for I believe you have no true reason to fear. Galbatorix was always a poor student when it came to focusing on the whole rather than mere parts. If the situation arises, though, I'm willing to serve you. _

Even though his voice is lighthearted, I can sense the horrible grief that plagues him, smothering his words like a blanket. Subconsciously, my own conscious reaches out to comfort his, though he sighs slightly and adds, ___Do not worry for me either, Saphira. _

Reluctantly drawing back from my efforts, I nod slightly. King Orrin is stock-still in his chair, bewildered by the strange contact, while Eragon and Nasuada have mirroring accepting expressions. ___Whatever you chose, I am here, _he responds before parting, retreating into his Eldunarí.

Though the contact seems terribly brief, it is strangely comforting—to know that he still ___exists, _and is there to be consulted.

"So it is settled?" Nasuada asks, raising an eyebrow. Eragon sighs heavily, running a hand down his face.

"I don't know," he mutters. "Perhaps, perhaps not."

"Eragon," the young Varden's leader insists, "There is never going to be a 'perfect time' for these things. We must act swiftly if we wish to prevail—while also keeping our wits about us. We've been presented with a strong advantage—" here she raises the map slightly "—and our resources are greater."

I rumble discontentedly at being ignored, and she addresses me sincerely. "And you, Saphira. The gain we might achieve far outweighs the risk—I would not think to risk you otherwise if not for these odds. You may bring others with you, if it helps—"

"No," the brown-haired boy interrupts, "We go alone—Saphira, Glaedr, and I."

And in that single sentence, it becomes clear that—both by his expression and his words—we've agreed.

Nasuada nods once, content, while King Orrin just shakes his hand and mutters, "This is a very strange day indeed."

0

"The greatest barrier to success is the fear of failure."

-___Sven Goran _

******Thorn**__

Winter descends with the first flurry, a nasty storm that seeps deep into the castle through the cobbled stone walls. Everyone is in dour spirits, reinforced by the Varden's continuous burden upon our troops. In remote areas, they have claimed small victories, though on the true battlefield, we remain unbeaten. Their behavior is strange, though—their attacks sporadic and seemingly unplanned. The moment they appear threatened to be overwhelmed, they retreat. Suspicions are raised by the questionable behavior, though neither the King nor his Black Dragon bother themselves to truly do anything besides issue the usual orders.

A cold fog drifts hazily through the cells, a white-gray mixture that adds a wintry feel to all the prison. Guards shiver irritably outside their respective cells, grumbling about the cold and moaning new complaints each day. Sometimes I interrupt them with a growl—other times I silence them with a roar. In total, I manage to discern that six guards rotate duties to my cell. Always three, for purposes I do not understand—for if I did manage to escape, three men couldn't hope to overwhelm myself. Though, when I hear their words, it becomes apparent that it is mostly an assurance for them, as well as a continuous vigil in case one is struck down.

The chains binding my wings have frosted over, creaking and groaning whenever I dare move. The velvety skin that makes them is torn and fragile, paper-like against such chills. Occasionally, the webbed cracks lining their surface break, allowing rivulets of hot blood to drip down them. Though I moan and growl in protest, none of the guards heed my discomfort.

Something deeper than the chill of winter haunts me, though. Whether it is in the lengthened shadows cast across the walls, or perhaps the dreary feel which the guards emanate, or just the darkness that seems eternal, something is wrong. I wish to question Shruikan of such, though he has forbidden himself to return to me—which he informed me mere days after his first and final conversation with me. I begged that he tell me what was wrong—for the strangeness to his tone was unmistakable—though he flouted my existence as casually as a sparrow hovers out of reach a fox.

From Shruikan, though, I tasted the same bitter sadness that is being grounded forever. During our short discussion, I saw only a handful of times his wings had beaten against the wind, his mind had opened free to the sensation of flying. Like he, I long to fly—my corrupted dreams filled with the undeniable euphoria of having my wings catch the wind and my paws relinquish earth. I can almost taste the sweet breath of the wind—and the power of it, driven by the forces of the heavens. I marvel at the thought of being so free, of being able to twist and turn and tumble without the restraint of chains. And as suddenly as my musings begin, my dreams are once again smothered by the chains that stretch precariously as I do.

___Flying, _I sigh, craning my neck back to examine my wings.

A ragged scar festers on my face, though it lies unattended as I breathe in an expansive, cold breath. Combined with the poisons that lather my stingy food and the chilled season, the fire that burns within me is barren, doused by the cold. My scales have faded in color—a sickly russet in color, rather than the brilliant scarlet they once were. The ruby haze that usually tints my vision has turned gray, deadened and lifeless. My spikes have taken on a grayish color as well, unhealthy and brittle.

But no one notices—or cares—and I do not tell them. For what would be the point? 'Make the cold go away; make the pain stop,' seems a child's complaint, and 'I'm hurting; help me,' is no better. If I am fortunate, the infection blossoming below and across my left eye will kill me—though I have horrible doubts of such that mean I just must suffer through it in silence. Occasionally, I wake feverish in the night, shivering and burying myself deep in the recesses of my cell. Some times I attempt to halt my own breathing, nearly succeeding before my traitorous body takes a breath. And on even rarer occasions, I have quested out toward the Black Dragon, pleading that he just come kill me.

Though for the most part, I am ignored.

A sorrowful moan escapes me and I turn to glare at the place where once I could see the guards, now distorted by my grayed sight. ___Why can't you see that I'm suffering? _I ask silently. ___Why can't you do _******anything**___?_

And it is true—for as blind as I am, they are blind to my true misery. Food is brought to me from a separate guard periodically—once every couple days or so—and thus there is no reason to suspect I am in any sort of pain, as I do not cry out or beg them for reprieve. My ravaging hunger demands more than the scrimpy bones and tufts of fur that they provide, tainted with suppressive drugs. Yet if I do not bother eat them, I do not eat at all.

And I cannot starve, so eat them I do.

A lugubrious roar breaks free of my possessive hold, echoing painfully throughout the dungeon. Somewhere, I know, someone is weeping; is laughing; is howling; is moaning; is begging.

Somewhere—___someone_ is dying.

And only once I close my jaws and fall silent do I realize that someone is me. Cold tears track down my face and I groan, ignoring the heated murmurs of the guards as they probably glance at my cell suspiciously. Now they must know—and as I learned from Shruikan, it was not ignorance that is the curse.

It is knowledge.

* * *

******Shruikan **

I pause, rolling my jaw so that the egg inside does not accidentally slip down my throat. What a fine excuse that would make—'I'm sorry, but I accidentally swallowed the egg.' I chuckle slightly, though it is bitter.

Galbatorix would have my head.

Or at least, so he says. The worried hatchling radiates fear and unease, prodding my mind hopefully for assurance. Irritable already, I offer only hasty thoughts of peace and well-being, though I know the young dragon sees through the thin excuses. ___Calm,_ I urge, ___all will be fine. _A doubtful emotion comes from him, though he retreats within his own warm cocoon as I continue along.

Though Galbatorix has entrusted the egg in my care, I can only wonder why. He holds indefinite control over me, true, but there is always the opportunity to thwart binds and have freedom. I suppose it is just an insult—that he regards me as too stupid to be able to think of a way to circumvent my bounds.

Fool.

But I suppose he is right in some aspect, as I have not already figured out how to get around this particular obstacle without bringing harm to Thorn or the green hatchling in my jaws.

A sour smirk curls my lips at the thought, absently shifting the egg on my tongue. Fortunately the build of my face is sleek, but muscular, thick jawbones melding into a firm neck seamlessly. Because of this, the slight bulge against my right cheek goes unnoticed as I stroll aimlessly down the corridors, occasionally passing a guard. They dismiss me with a murmured 'Black Dragon', and I dismiss them with a flat glare.

The dark impression of fear clouds my mind, and for a moment I pause, convinced something terrible is about to happen. And in the next, I realize it is the hatchling, radiating waves of the paralyzing emotion. ___Calm, calm, _I reply, my voice low and seemingly menacing. The hatchling, however, seems to recognize the presence of another dragon, oddly quieting to my words. The soft hum of his presence, troubled by my inner worry yet silenced by my gentle command, is like the dim glow of a candle in the dark. A steadying thing that allows me a moment of peace—to understand that there is more to the world than evil. That there are innocents who must be protected from corruption—even if it is a corrupted one who guards them.

I sigh weakly—this is the job of a dragoness, not an enslaved dragon like myself. Guarding an egg has never been the task of the male, and certainly never to one as 'untrustworthy' as myself. Though I suppose that it is my task, and mine alone as I quietly pad down the halls. Besides, I reason, the only dragoness remaining is barely above a hatchling herself—and on the wrong side of this blasted war.

I pause again, Galbatorix's words like poisonous taunts in my head. ___'Don't tell me you don't wish to have her as your own… I've seen your thoughts, Shruikan, and know the fantasies you entertain._' Traitorously, my conscience agrees, while the rest of me protests vehemently. I am nearly a century her senior—the idea of a relationship existing between us is vulgar in itself. But how terrible is it, then—desperate times do invoke desperate measures.

I growl at the rationalizing, unable to resist the wistful part that begs I agree; that finds solace in the fact that ___maybe _it could happen. ___Stop it, stop it, _******stop it¸** I order, as though the irate part that loves the idea is another being entirely. The green hatchling sends a hazy emotion to me, one that mimics calmness. No, not calmness—___confusion. _It's questioning mind urges mine for some answer, though I ignore his prodding and continue along.

No. I refuse to acknowledge it, even to a hatchling unborn. A purr seems to exude from the egg, though it is so small and soft I can only just detect it. ___Be silent, _I sigh quietly, and the hatchling reluctantly obliges.

Everywhere I look, there are grayed stones covered in battered tapestries, depicting once fabulous scenes in splotched paints. One strikes me as particularly gruesome—the image of white dragon with ruby wings hung close by its sides, head drooping miserably. Drops of blood hover eternally on a carpet of black, a low moan seeming to escape the creature as its white eyes gaze downward. Surrounding it lie humans, elves, dwarves, Urgals… all races. The once white scales of the dragon's back are stained red as well—its face is splotched and twisted with agony. A single sword protrudes from the beast's left breast, though it appears almost content at such a thing.

And written brutally on the sword is a single name: ___Bid'Daum. _

I turn, focusing my gaze on the damp hallway, though surreptitiously allowing myself to be draw upon a different painting. This one is remarkably different than the first, yet eerily similar. It is the image of a sea-green dragon, strangling another dragon in its bloodied jaws. The sharp contrast of green and red is stunning, though not nearly as the indigo dragon clutched in its maw. Mouth opened in a soundless cry, the indigo appears to struggle, its wings flared to reveal a myriad of scars and fresh cuts. The sea-green holds the same deadened look as the white Bid'Daum, though most striking is the way its claws drive themselves into the earth, its shoulders straining backwards. Its wings ripple with a nonexistent breeze, and its brow is furrowed deeply as its lip curls into a snarl.

It is frozen, yet I know that deep within, it is trying to draw back, trying desperately to stop. Twin swords cross malevolently in the bloody copper earth before them—one jade, one blue. ___Fundor, _says the jade, and ___Ohen, _reads the blue.

I shiver and move on.

Yet there is no respite from the dark, single-minded demons that possess the paintings before me. A crimson—named Jura by the red sword lodged in its left shoulder—dives to strike at another crimson—Beroan, whose naming sword is mounted in its neck, craned upward in a defiant roar. Savagely, Gretiem—a gray—and Briam—a silver—engage in a duel, their wings overlapping as their teeth sink into each other's flesh. Protruding from their sides are the gray and silver swords respectively, again branded with their names. Drawing a barbed tail back defensively is Roslarb—a violet—while Galzra—an orange—dodges with a silent hiss. Roslarb's sword is planted firmly in her tail, while Galzra's sticks grotesquely above her head.

Dozens of these dragons fight in silent combat, all frozen within the paints of a tapestry. Though the material is weathered and faded, it is clear of the names, and of the sickening skill put into making each appear as demonic as the next. Questioning thoughts come from the green hatchling at my disturbed conscience, though I ignore them, now focused solely on the dragons.

Hírador, an earthy brown, strikes down a sapphire whose sword is broken, one part jutting from just below her jaw. The brown's sword is stabbed into the base of his neck, while the blue's missing half lies on the ground beneath his ivory claw. I squint, just able to read the faded print—'Saph' upon the broken half, 'ira' upon the half that is still pressed against her jaw.

___Who? _the young green hatchling seems to inquire, the low purr of his thoughts suggesting such. ___Why? _he adds in a troubled emotion of curiosity and fear.

___No one, _I assure. ___Be calm. _

I feel sickened as I pass more of the paintings, each more fiendish than the last. Still, the most tortured appears at the very end.

A bronze dragon is crushed into the stony ground beneath it—looming over it a regal scarlet. The downed dragon's mouth is open in a wide, aching roar, though its eyes glisten with unmistakable tears. Torn wings—so ripped and mauled they barely resemble such—hang limply from its shoulders, and its spikes are cracked and bent. Its face is riddled with cuts, its eyes blinded with white. Even in its helpless state, the most tragic feature is of the broken pride in its destroyed wings—and the pleading in its blind eyes.

Yet the worst part of the painting is not of the bronze's demise—but of the red's complete indifference to such. Its face does not glower with hate, as one would expect, but rather remains as calm and controlled as though asserting a simple statement that is true over a false one. Its claws dig harshly into the bronze, yet it appears untroubled by the blood that has dyed them. And as it cranes its neck downward to spare a glimpse at its prey, the same impassive expression gazes upon the dying dragon beneath it.

I close my eyes, breathing deeply and turning away, stalking down the hall without bothering to read the single sword locked against the bronze's chest. I need not ponder why this is so—why the red has seemingly been spared from the cruel joke that the rest must bear.

For the bronze, I know, is Orandr—and the red, Baen.

And Orandr is Vrael's dragon, while Baen is Morzan's.

* * *

******Saphira **

I scan the horizon—darkened with the first touch of eve—before glancing over at Eragon, who digs through a sack furtively before nodding to himself and moving over to something else. He lifts the two saddlebags and reattaches them with practiced ease, not once glancing up at me as he knots them tightly. I snort once softly to get his attention, though he sighs heavily and reenters his tent, bustling about disinterestedly.

Miffed at being ignored—though understanding the true worry that plagues him—I keep an irritable silence, shuffling about to and fro. Only two days before and we sat before King Orrin and Nasuada, where we decided it time to attempt to steal the green egg for ourselves. It is, undoubtedly, a risky mission, though one we must at least try. I glance around, distracting myself from the despairing thoughts of confronting the one who apparently is the egg's true captor—Shruikan. Nearby, I notice, Vor Laurk and Vor Merrn spare myself a brief glance before returning to their dry duties of guarding, understanding smirks crossing their faces.

Around me, a light dusting of snow coats the ground—the result of a fearsome storm that swept across the Hadarac only a day before. Mercifully, we evaded its cold grasp, suffering only a slight chill in temperature as it moved northward. The intense underground heat fuels a constant dryness, and soon the snow reigned unacknowledged amidst the encampment.

I sigh heavily. Soon, I know, we must depart, as the Varden can only distract the Empire's troops for so long. Tarry too long and we risk Galbatorix catching onto our plans—an insurmountable difficultly that mustn't occur. Secretly, I almost hope he does discover our plans and we are forced to retreat, though a reprimanding thought enters my conscience almost as quickly as the idea crosses my mind. ___Saphira, _rumbles my former teacher and master.

___Yes, Glaedr-ebrithil? _I inquire, more out of habit than anything.

___Do not wish misfortune upon yourselves. Trust me—I wouldn't allow this if I were not fairly certain we shall succeed. _

I paw absently at the ground, kneading the earth between my claws. ___I don't know, _I admit, ___it doesn't seem very likely to succeed to me. _

To my surprise, an amused chuckle radiates from the golden dragon's Eldunarí, the sound as gravelly and deep as it was when he possessed a true body. ___Ah, Saphira, you worry too much, _he chides. ___Let things take their course, and then decide if it was truly foolishness. For now, be open. If this does in fact succeed, we shall add another dragon to our ranks. Better—one who can be your mate once he reaches maturity. _

I cannot help it—I blush shamefully as the words take on a slightly reprimanding tone from my earlier mishaps courting Glaedr. Of course, the golden dragon had forgiven me, though I still could not help but feel immensely guilty for doing such a childish thing. Bowing my head slightly to the deepening night, I consider his words for several moments longer, an inexplicable anger welling up within me at how casually he states the need for me to mate with the green dragon.

I know that I must do so. If there is to be any hope for the dragon's restoration, it is in the offspring that I mother. Since Glaedr is not an option, and Thorn and Shruikan are likewise unsuitable, it leaves but that unborn hatchling. Still, I wish that Glaedr hadn't so blatantly disregarded my own feelings—that perhaps I might be concerned with how strong and how intelligent the hatchling becomes.

___Saphira, _reproves the ancient dragon at my thoughts, ___there is no room to be picky. You must accept what fate has dealt you, and live with it. That is the only way to live life—and that is the only way any of us may continue to do so. _

___Yes, Glaedr-ebrithil, _I respond, feeling childish for even having thought such things. He is right—it is terribly choosy to be judging the unborn hatchling already, even worse to be angered by such. ___I'm sorry, _I add lamely.

___No need to be. Now, your Rider appears ready, so you should be as well, _he notes. At my displeased nod, he pauses before adding paternally, ___Do not judge so hastily that which you do not know, Saphira. It is best to go in with an open mind than it is to be stubbornly set on one choice. There is nothing to discover if you do not look. _

Surprised by the strange wisdom, I nod once. ___Of course, Glaedr-ebrithil. _

___Saphira, _he chuckles, genuinely amused, ___I am your master no longer. Your training with myself and—_he pauses abruptly, and his voice fades sorrowfully to nothing. ___Regardless, you need not refer to me as 'master', _he finishes quietly.

I begin to protest before silencing myself. With a short bow, I say simply, ___Yes, Glaedr. _

He retreats, Eragon emerging almost on cue, yet another sack slung over his shoulder. ___What's with all the packs? _I ask, bemused. He shakes his head slightly, climbing into the saddle. I crane my neck back to look at him skeptically, though he simply shrugs.

___We travel light as it is. One pack is for the way there, the other's for the way back, and this—_he pauses to pat the pack shouldered on his back—___is for once we're there. _

___Oh? What's in it? _

He shrugs, unfastening the pack and holding it open.

___Of course. Nothing, _I chuckle in response, shaking my head slightly at his smirk.

___We have to have something to carry the egg in if we succeed, _he chastises, and suddenly our bantering fades to seriousness. I nod in agreement, Glaedr rumbling disapprovingly from his Eldunarí at my sudden solemnity.

___Indeed we do, _I agree, spreading my wings to catch the night air. Taking in an expansive breath to my lungs, I relish the cool breeze that filters past the humid air. Allowing my mind to empty itself of such pessimistic thoughts, I throw my wings outward jubilantly. ___Ready? _I ask, not really caring for an answer. Eragon answers by gripping a neck spike tighter, and with a powerful thrust, I drive myself into the twilight sky.

**Chapter end notes:**

Yes, Thorn's and Saphira's parts were short. However, it was either have a filler chapter such as this or even more confusion later by skipping ahead. All three passages occur at the end of the second day after Nasuada, King Orrin, Eragon, and Saphira discussed plans of entering Urû'baen. Hopefully I didn't confuse you too much, and aside from Baen and Orandr, you can find of all the dragons that Shruikan mentioned from Eragon when Brom is discussion dragon names. I hope you enjoyed, and it'd be nice to get a review if you did. ;)

0

_'__Aren't the stars beautiful?' he said in the midst of delirium._

******Shruikan**

_'__If you fear to be wrong,' asserted Baen, 'you will never dare to be right.' _

Something of Morzan's dragon is unforgettable in a way that cannot be pinpointed to a single trait. I know this because while the rest of the Forsworn have slipped into a shadowy part of my mind that refuses to remember, this red dragon has not. A tragedy, it is, that I cannot even properly relate his name—lost upon a cruel binding the old Order of Riders has placed upon us. I have been spared such humiliation—to lose one's very name, the core of your identity—but I cannot say the same of my unlikely compatriots.

He—the Red Dragon who deserves far more than granted—was not heartless, cruel, or wicked as so many tell. Rather, he was fatherly, in a strange way. He took charge almost immediately of our ranks and made sure that whenever day's end had fallen we were all accounted for. Much as a King commandeering his servants, he demanded of us obedience, even if I were supposedly our leader. I submissively fulfilled his commands as the others did, not daring strike a revolt amidst ourselves by challenging him. Despite his tyrannical behavior, he never once laid harm upon us—and rarely did he ever falter or chose wrong when he agreed with his Rider.

Blunt was another prominent trait of his I can recall easily—as well as fairly stubborn. Whenever he decided upon a path, there was no doubting—or questioning—him. It was to be followed almost thoughtlessly, though with such a devout trust in Baen that there was no disagreement to be found. Subtlety and secrecy were two arts Baen never mastered, for even in the most dire situations, he never sugarcoated things. For a time, it seemed an agreeable thing to be able to know of our true peril, though after a while, it grew to be almost intolerably grim. But never once did Baen think of speaking other than the truth, which made him both admirable and loathsome.

_'__If you cannot speak what it is you mean to say,' he admonished me once, 'then what point are you trying to make? That you are too cowardly to even speak what you feel—and thus wasting time trying to conceive a lie? Bah—worthless talk, that is, and even more worthless in the time of trouble. No, the only way to make sure what you wish to say is heard is to say it without hesitation—and without trickery.'_

If I had been older at the time, I would've heeded those words better than I had in my foolish youth—yet I was not, and for that I am ashamed. Still, many a things he has told me remain strong in my memory—far more noticeable than any of the other things I was told. Perhaps it was the way he spoke—perhaps it was the words. But I know it could not have been just one or the other, else I would have remembered nothing.

Something about Baen himself, though, was unusual. He possessed a trait that was lost to the bards—lost to the legends. ___Charismatic. _For even in the most discordant of times, he could draw forth unity from us, words alone settling qualms. There was no strife towards his authority, for nothing he did was arguable. Unless, that is, we chose to challenge logic itself—an impossible argument. He was companionable, even friendly, at times, and for that there was little to disagree with him.

Even the deep golden-yellow dragon never dared defy Baen, though the gold was perhaps the most rebellious of us. His name escapes me, though I believe it was something of Myrth. Or Aurum. Or Synom.

Ah, the cruel crime it is to remember the name, yet forget the one who bears it—and lose the ability to directly place it to them.

The only reason I am even able to know their old names now is because I was alive at the time when they had them—before they were stripped of their spirits and reduced to savage beings. For some unfathomable reason, Baen was the only one amongst our ranks that never suffered a streak of insanity from such a thing. I never suffered this punishment either, though it was torment enough to listen to the mad ravings of a poisoned dragon that craved only blood and death.

I am undoubtedly certain it is from these darkest times in which the entirety of the Forsworn's existence has been judged.

Baen, however, was remarkably levelheaded even in the most chaotic of periods—a rare reprieve from our crazed companions. He was very quiet, though, which both unnerved and frightened myself. Never once did he show the slightest sign of discomfort, though his words were short and brief—never returning to the fascinating dragon he had once been. Still, I was drawn to him, as he was the only one who I could go to for even the slightest of comforts. He never regarded me with more than a curt nod—the same courtesy he extended to our mad followers.

_'__Orandr will bleed,_

___As the bright moon turns black, _

___For Vroengard will see,_

___The protection they lack,' _

___Sung a dark violet dragon in a frightening voice. _

___Baen watched on in silence, crimson eyes oddly amused as a grim smile twitched at the corners of his lips. _

The Forsworn never recovered from such a blow. As Baen's self-proclaimed rule declined, I asserted myself as leader, and from there, my reputation was earned. I was no longer an unnoticed follower—and never again would I be. Baen's health took a sudden turn for the worse, though he concealed it obstinately and refused to be rested because of it. He coughed blood at nights, and slept fitfully from fevers. Morzan attempted to heal him several times, succeeding only in nauseating himself and earning firm rebukes from Baen. The Red Dragon never appeared hindered, however, as we struck the Riders, bringing down their numbers.

Eventually, the madness that had disintegrated our once thriving hierarchy destroyed our ranks entirely. Galbatorix's conquest was nearly concluded—the Riders stood on ground that had been rocked to its core by our revolt. Only one task remained, and that was to kill the Bronze Dragon himself.

And it is here that history has brutally chosen to assert which side shall be remembered as the 'good', and which side shall be remembered as the 'bad'.

Before the destruction of the Forsworn's names, we had functioned remarkably well, dealing justice rather than revenge. We killed out of necessity, and stayed clear of the Riders who sought to massacre us. When the lines defining revenge and justice wavered, we were accused of horrible things, treacherously forced into positions which would leave us as the undeniable villains. No one would argue with the Elders at such time and they stole our names in turn.

Had they not, and I can believe things would've been far different than what they are today.

But alas, they were as they were, and soon the Forsworn's true nature and rumors of its existence coincided. With the corruption that was brought upon by the very ones trying to deter us from committing such crimes, we did exactly as we were not to.

_'__Irony is bitter,' remarked Baen hoarsely one eve, a surprise to me as he had not spoken to me in many a day. 'It treats all—the hero and the villain alike—to humility.' _

Of course, history chooses what times it wishes to remember, and from which side it chooses to be written from. As the majority of people at the time sided with the Elders, there was no doubt our existence would be known as traitors—terrible beasts that had forever shamed their kind and deserved no remembrance for any good.

Baen's reputation suffered severely from the stories, rapidly falling from an unknown to a monster. I, too, had earned myself an unwanted position amidst the world's eye, though I would not dispute it and thus embraced it. When we decided that it was time to deal away with Orandr, we knew we would be remembered forever as the ones who destroyed the Riders.

_'__We tread on dangerous ground,' said Baen, a sense of his dry humor ebbing into his voice. 'History shall not be kind to us in the end, though we must take into firm account that there is no reason to let history bother us. If we stop now, we die in vain. If we continue and succeed, we'll die remembered.' _

The night, I remember clearly, was very dark when we first struck Vroengard's heart. Shell-shocked by our ambush, the Riders and dragons attempted to rally themselves, though we swiftly disposed of them. When Galbatorix struck down Vrael, he fled—coward that he was. We pursued, and all the while Orandr evaded our grasp. Taunting us, sometimes, by drawing near enough that we might even scent the hardened copper blood on his sides.

Finally, in the last throes of our pursuit, Orandr landed, allowing Vrael to rest. The four of us—Morzan, Galbatorix, Baen, and I—descended upon them, and from there we battled it out.

I will never approve how Galbatorix disposed of Vrael, though neither was I capable of stopping it. Enraged at his act, Orandr mauled Baen within an inch of his life, though Baen doggedly snatched his neck and clung to him.

_'__You will die today, Orandr!' I remembered his cry. _

_'__That I shall, Baen,' replied the bronze dragon tonelessly, 'but you shall die as well.' _

While Baen's words had proven true, Orandr's had fallen short, making our battle seem all the more cruel to the people who heard of it. The injuries Orandr dealt Baen were horrendous, though the worst was blinding in his left eye. None outside our small ranks were aware of such a fact. It took weeks for his recovery, and by such a time, Morzan and Galbatorix had become a pair to behold, if not from the best light.

It was there that he lost my approval—when he ordered myself and the battered Baen to travel to the stone-cliff just beyond the Craigs of Tel'naeír. We discovered—to our horror and dismay—dozens of eggs, most already destroyed. Galbatorix and Morzan made quick work of the remaining ones, sparing only three eggs that appeared healthy enough. Disgusted by such work, Baen had requested—mildly enough—that we return to the city we now knew as Urû'baen. Morzan had not-so-kindly declined, though Galbatorix had agreed and eventually we were off.

Baen's life, I knew at that time, was fast ending. His health hadn't recovered from the blows Orandr dealt him, and his sight was irreparable. He suffered bouts of restlessness, sometimes rambling on through the night as I dutifully stood guard over him, at the time equal in size.

_'__Aren't the stars beautiful?' he said in the midst of delirium. 'So bright and perfect—how wonderful it would be to be one! Oh, Shruikan, you mustn't be fearful, for the stars are always perfect, and bright they shall forever be.' _

As the life faded from his eyes and the strength from his limbs, I remained by his side, encouraging him as he had once done for me. Morzan was busy with Galbatorix for the most part, though he visited Baen often. Remorse was the only emotion I can recall him feeling towards Baen, and all I felt from Baen was the horrible doom that you know you are slowly dying and are powerless to stop it.

One eve, Morzan proposed that he and Baen deal with the newest threat of the time—Brom, and his dragon Saphira. Apparently, Morzan had some older issues to resolve with the man, and so was permitted to go and tend to it.

I regret ever having let them go, for it was within my power to stop them. Yet, in the words of Baen: ___'We cannot anticipate failure if we wish to survive.'_

From what I heard, it was not a kind death. I discovered for myself this several days later as I chanced upon his and Morzan's corpses. A red slit told me Morzan had been stabbed through the heart—a mockery, in a way, as though to proclaim he were a shade. Baen's face was a pale red, sickly and cracked. A long tear bisected it, and along he neck was a single, deep slash wound. Not far from him lie another—a blue dragoness, limp and still.

I remember that as the first night I ever wept, and the only night since I would ever do so.

_'__There are some things that deserve our respect,' chastised Baen wisely, 'and others that deserve our admiration. There are things that deserve our pity, as well as our regret. But few things deserve our hate—and just some that deserve our love.'_

I bow my head, the memories fading as reality crushingly reasserts itself. A smooth round object slips between my jaws and lands with a muted clatter upon the marble floor, alarmed thoughts surging from within. Glancing down at the glistening egg, I smile sadly to myself and scoop down, gently taking it into my jaws once more. __

___Who? _the young hatchling asks, though not in words.

And I have not even the words to explain it, so I simply answer as though he understands me, ___An old friend._

**Chapter end notes:**

So. This chapter is here for two reasons:

1) To build up Shruikan's past/character more

2) To give you more insight on the Forsworn from his perspective

So I do hope you enjoyed and next chapter will get back to the romance. ;)

0

___'It's just so… different.'_

******Saphira**

The thrum that reverberates through my wings seems to enthuse me with power. Instead of fatigued, I feel rejuvenated, as though before I were caged and now I am free. I wish to fly for eternity, feeling the steady rhythm that drives me forward. My scales shudder occasionally, shivering on my hide in the chill night air. Eragon tenaciously clings to a neck spike, though I need not ask to know the soreness in his back and shoulders from being hunched over, and the cold that nips aggravatingly at his face and hands. I attempt to soothe his aches with my own pleasure, though he refuses my offers with a grumble.

___Save your energy, _he refutes. ___I'll be fine. _Warming his hands with a murmured spell, he straightens slightly to prove his point. With an exasperated snort, I soar onward, breathing clouds. They puff before me with each breath I take, dissolving into the velvety night only a moment later. Sometimes I allow the fire from within me to slip from my throat, hot air rippling before me before it, too, disappears.

Two colors dominate my sight—black and blue. The black cloaks everything, an overpowering shade that seems to seek out every shadow to coalesce. But just as prevalent is the bluish tinge that illuminates torches in the distance, and stars impossibly far above us. I purr happily, enjoying the calm contrast the colors share—how the black shadows the blue, which seems to forever elude its grasp. Breathing a heavy gust of air, I plunge through the cerulean cloud a moment later.

___Black signifies evil in a way, _remarks Eragon sourly.

___How so?_ I ask, humming to myself as I glide.

___It kills. Black poison, blackened days, black hearts… _

___Evil is not borne of blackness, _I admonish. ___Darkness and blackness are not interchangeable. _

___What difference does it make? Blackness and darkness exist together. _

___Blackness is used for dark purposes, not the other way around. _

And to that, he is silent. I drift along, the snowy desert beneath me quiet. My own words seem to echo in my head, unrelenting: ___Blackness is used for dark purposes. _

A snarl rumbles in my throat as one particular example of such enters my thoughts, though I forcefully press it back. No. I will not even think of ___him. _

___Why do you worry about him? _Eragon asks, misinterpreting my repressed anger for fear. With a shake of my head, I surge forward, Eragon's grip tightening slightly as he bows his head to the onslaught of wind.

We do not speak for the rest of that night, nor the two nights following it.

* * *

Eragon estimates three leagues separate us from Urû'baen's gates.

I watch as he shoulders a pack, filled with a few necessities as well as the empty sack. He relieves me of the saddle, allowing me to stretch for the first time since we left the Varden. The sun blazes low at the horizon—many will not be up for a few hours yet. I let a grateful sigh escape me, watching as he buries the saddle and extra pack. Though it is not a perfect concealment, I know it will suffice as few enough would come crossing the Hadarac. Nothing unremarkable is around us, leaving us relatively open amidst the dunes.

___So crowded in here, _Glaedr drawls from his Eldunarí. ___Tight fit. _

___Oh hush, you, _I chastise. He snorts, the sound muffled through the mental link.

___You do not have to be in a sack, _he complains, and though I open my mouth to retort, I shut it wordlessly and shake my head. No need to bring up unpleasant things such as that.

___Whatever you say, ebrithil. _The word is spoken playfully, though a dreary sigh from him tells me that he has interpreted that another way. ___Sorry, Glaedr, _I offer.

Eragon shuffles around my left side as I watch, his thinned shoulders burdened with the heavy pack. For a moment, he is silent, staring out at the city stoically. And then: ___How, exactly, are we supposed to get into the city?_

___By avoiding the guards, _Glaedr pipes in, recovered. When Eragon threatens to comment, he continues. ___Human guards may be avoided or killed, and if you wish to kill them, it must be done carefully. Avoiding them would be simpler—just alter your appearance slightly and you can be unrecognizable. _

___Master, you never, ah, elaborated how to do that, _Eragon admits sheepishly. Glaedr seems perplexed before 'ahhing' understandingly.

___I see. Well, I suppose I will have to teach you then, won't I?_ And so he proceeds to do just that, Eragon occasionally offering comment or a nod. The spell, I recognize, is not unlike that used to encourage plants and trees to grow, though the wording is strange and seems foreign to my mind as I repeat the words absently. ___Be careful, _Glaedr warns. ___Altering one's appearance is a costly spell—you must make the most insignificant changes you can with the largest effect. _

Nodding once more, Eragon closes his eyes in concentration, standing silent on the plain. He wordlessly looses the pack from his shoulders, placing it to his right. A distant shushing of wind grazing sand reaches my ears, though I focus on Eragon as his brow furrows slightly, his fists clenching slowly. It is then I notice the golden tinge receding from his hair, replaced by a darker shade of brown. His brow thickens slightly, taken on a more human quality as his tapered ears smooth out to gentle tips. With a sudden gasp, he clutches his jaw, a trail of crimson seeping from it. ___Careful, _reprimands Glaedr. ___Concentrate on flesh, not bone. _

With a stiff nod, Eragon mutters a quick healing spell before resuming. Flesh from just beneath his ears pools slightly into his jawbones, enlarging them to a more human standard. His face appears more haggard with the effect, dark circles appearing beneath his eyes. His hands tremble, though he continues at his task staunchly, accepting my strength without comment. I notice how his chest and belly narrow slightly, as though emaciated, and the muscles from his legs vanish. His back becomes flatter—more natural on a young man—and he shivers slightly. Gritting his teeth, he continues, eyes leveling themselves infinitesimally to compensate for the elven curve they had taken on.

Suddenly, he opens them, and stares at me as I at him. His eyes, part of me notes offhandedly, turned almost blue in the process, grayness bearing down on them. Every elven quality that he had taken on is gone. Even more surprisingly is that though the alterations had seemed minor when he had slowly attended to each, together the change is astonishing. I stare in blank amazement.

He shudders suddenly before collapsing, convulsing on the ground for several moments before falling limp. My wings flare slightly in surprise and I stiffen. Just as I reach forward to nudge him and see if he is awake, he staggers to his feet with a groan, and the true alterations become apparent.

"D-mn," he mutters, voice so different I stumble back in surprise. Much deeper, and rougher, as though ailed. I cock my head at him as he brushes off his ruddy-brown breeches, appearing unfazed.

___Eragon? _I finally quest as he turns slightly to examine his back speculatively. He faces me, blinking twice and squinting as though his eyes are betraying him. He blinks again, and suddenly a heavy sigh escapes him. Moving forward clumsily, he adjusts to the graceless human body he has reverted to with slow steps. Wrapping a pair of surprisingly burly arms around my neck, he presses his forehead to my scales as though seeking comfort.

___Is this a joke? _he asks, lifting his hands slightly to peer at them. I frown, though he waves it off. ___I know this is real, _he adds. ___It's just so… different. _

I glance at him, bobbing my head in a nod. ___You look very different. _

He chuckles, the sound causing me to shuffle uncomfortably. Though I know it is he, the changes have me uneasy.

___Did it work?_ asks Glaedr.

___See for yourself, _replies Eragon, sending him a mental image of himself. I sense Glaedr's surprise, though the golden dragon hides it remarkably well.

___Good. You might be best off, though, waiting a day before venturing into Urû'baen. _

_"__What?" _the outraged cry burst from both of us, though I sense Glaedr's unflinching presence resound calmly against Eragon and I.

___As I said, it is a costly spell—who knows what the side effects of such a thing might be. _

"What if nothing even happens? Then we've wasted a day!" retorts Eragon. His trembling arms, however, betray him, and he clutches my neck tighter to still them. I brush my snout reassuringly against his side, though he pushes me away roughly. Wordlessly, I withdraw, allowing him to press himself against my neck.

___And what if you were to collapse in a seizure at Galbatorix's feet from exhaustion? _counters Glaedr. ___No. You will wait here a day, or I will not assist you in your quest. _

"And if we chose to refuse your assistance? Then what?"

___You would be a foolish rider, Eragon, to deny my assistance, _reprimands Glaedr mildly, though I sense the severity to his words. With a sigh, Eragon pulls back from my neck and I turn slightly to look at him.

"Fine," he mutters aloud. "We'll wait. Though I still don't get what worries you so."

___Many a thing. Changing oneself can have greater repercussions than you would believe, _murmurs Glaedr before retreating.

___This is ridiculous, _Eragon comments huffily as he sits by my side. I allow his ungrateful behavior, too mystified by the Rider-that-looks-not-like-my-Rider to protest. He crosses his arms, stilling the tremors there, though unable to hide the true tiredness from his face. His head is bowed slightly, chin resting on his chest.

___Rest, Eragon. You cannot do any good like this, _I urge.

He stubbornly ignores my command, glancing ahead dryly. He frowns, brow furrowing, and seems to struggle over some puzzle before sighing. At my questioning thought, he mutters, ___Blind. I'm going blind. _

I stare at him, confused, before he rolls his eyes and roughly tugs me into his consciousness. The blue clarity that marks my vision suddenly vanishes, replaced by a hazy, unfocused sight that reveals only an unending plain of pale peach-gold. As he examines the horizon, I realize how damaged his sight is, the gates of Urû'baen nothing more than a blurry black line. Retreating, I blink at the sudden shift of perspective before glancing at him worriedly. ___Can you repair it? _I ask.

He snorts. ___If I knew what were wrong, perhaps. Otherwise, I've no clue. _

He rests his head against my cool side and I shift, allowing the warm scales of my belly to be exposed. He shifts, hunching over on his left side and curling against my side. I can still feel the constant shivers that rack his frame, though more prominent are the frustration and fear and regret he feels. ___Rest, _I insist, ___and perhaps when you awaken it will be better. _

He laughs bitterly. ___Perhaps. _Curling in on himself, he barricades his consciousness from mine, the barrier fading as the effort from the spell takes full effect.

At first, the sudden shift from full consciousness to deep sleep startles and even frightens myself, until Glaedr informs, ___Spells such as these have unusual effects. Do not worry over it so much. _

___Glaedr, the spell damaged his sight, _I answer, caught between grimness and anger at my old mentor for not having told us of consequences such as these. To my dismay, Glaedr appears equally confused.

___Blinding? Now that I've not heard of in a while. Well, if I had to make judgment of it, I'd say it's temporary and harmless. _

___Harmless! _I bellow, suddenly outraged. ___Glaedr, why didn't you warn us? Could not you have told us, and we could've just gone into the city and killed any guards we came across? What good will come of this now? _

___Trust me, _soothes the golden dragon, though I refuse to be calmed. ___Give it time and it will be fine. _

___And if it's not? _I counter. ___What if the blindness worsens? What if he becomes entirely blind? How, Glaedr, do you expect us to fight Galbatorix if my Rider cannot even see? _

___You'll find a way. _

I sigh, laying a wing protectively over Eragon before craning my neck forward and reclaiming the abandoned sack. Within, I feel Glaedr's presence, drawing it between my forepaws. I stare down at the pack, wondering how a dragon so large as he could be reduced to a stone that could fit inside a pack such as this. ___What is it like to be in there, Glaedr? _I ask, curious.

___Very quiet. _

___I'm serious. _

___I am too. _

___Can not you be at least a bit more serious, then? _

He sighs suddenly, as though exhausted. ___It's strange, _he admits. ___To talk without the advantage of a body. Your thoughts so open… _He pauses, and just as he noted, I notice how easy it is to sense his despair and dread, his true concern over Eragon and fear of what he agrees will happen—blindness.

___Powerful spells, _he agrees gravely. ___Mustn't tempt them—horrid results, they might have. Perhaps we should be grateful that it did not affect his old scar—just as easily could that have been renewed. _

I think on that for several long moments before shivering. Nodding once, I add, ___Better his sight than his back. Durza deserves to rot for that—and many others. _

I sense Glaedr's consent as he withdraws slightly, a hint of sadness returning to his demeanor. Quiet fills my mind. Restively, I shift, though Eragon shifts slightly as well, caught deeply in sleep. I absently quest for his mind, though a solid barrier of unconsciousness locks me away. Curling myself slightly against Glaedr's troubled and Eragon's untouchable consciousnesses, I stare out gloomily at the city so near, so foreboding and wonder how we will succeed.

* * *

Many hours later, when the sun has already begun drifting downwards from its zenith, Glaedr nudges me gently into awareness. I had not even realized when I had dozed, nor how I had let down my guard so easily, just that I had lost my bearing of the world for a time. Perhaps it was the silence that drew it on—I focus not on that as a hand pats my wing expectantly. Lifting it, I wait as Eragon draws a hand up over his eyes, noticeably bluer than before yet still tinged with grayness. His expression, however, is confused, and my own is crestfallen. So it has not gotten better.

___Eragon? _I ask tentatively, shielding him from the sun as I tilt my wing slightly.

___It's not better, _he answers my unspoken question. ___Though it's not worse. _He sighs aloud, and I can sense his exhaustion more clearly than before. With his return to consciousness came the return of the gentle tremors, which he stilled somewhat by hugging his arms tightly to himself. Taking several deep breaths, he faces away from me, and I wait patiently for him to regroup. With sudden determination, he pushes my wing aside gently, standing on uneasy legs. Like a fawn first getting its bearings, he stumbles before steadying, holding out his arms for balance. Though he is bedecked in the same sparrow's colors as before—dark brown breeches melding into his light brown tunic—he appears much less a rider than he does a simple farm boy.

Glaedr had not lied when he said it would make him all but unrecognizable.

"Let's go," he says aloud, pointing with a thin hand to the distant city of Urû'baen. I raise an eyebrow reflexively in surprise, though he ignores it and slips before me to reclaim the pack. "We have no time to delay."

___But you've not recovered your strength, _I argue after a dazed moment. ___Or your sight, _I add silently. He shrugs, twisting the ring on his left ring-finger and murmuring a brief spell. His cheeks flush slightly, a new life glowing in his eyes as the trembling settles slightly. ___Why didn't you use that before? _I demand, pointing with my snout to Aren. He shakes his head grimly.

"To be honest, I forgot about it." Marching ahead, he adds over his shoulder, "Are you coming? We haven't all day here."

___Eragon, _I complain to his insistence.

"Saphira," he retorts coolly.

With a grudging sigh, I follow him, catching the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips. ___Oh shut up, _I grumble, rolling my eyes at his amused chuckling. I add seriously, ___Once we get closer, I lead the way. _

"Why?" he demands.

I look at him, and the message is received: ___Because you can't see as well as I can._ We continue along, Glaedr silent in his Eldunarí.

0

___'They will not be a problem to us.'_

******Thorn**

Cold blood drips down my jaw, tufts of deer-fur clinging to it. My tongue darts out distastefully, bits of fur there as well. I crunch on the bones furtively, hoping perhaps to find marrow within them. But alas, they are dried and disgustingly soft, as though wetted before handed to me. I force myself to ignore their flavor and just eat, to take the sustenance without complaint, and to finish the meager meal before I can no longer stomach the thought.

Fortunately, it is a small meal, and soon enough only speckles of blood and patches of gray fur remain. I lick my jaws once to clean them of the revoltingly cold blood, my lip curling back as a low rumble escapes me. I know the King is aware of the sufficient amount of food that a dragon requires, though he seems to pleasure himself in providing me with the lowliest quantities of such. But I do not complain, for I learned long before that complaining brought nothing but pain.

My wings shiver against their restraints as I recall when I had first dared speak against the King's word—when I had first questioned ___why. _Why he had enslaved myself and Murtagh so, why he would place such bonds upon me, why was he causing me pain, why was he laughing at my misery? But I learned that, in this harsh unspoken world, you do not complain, for complaining earns beatings from your superiors.

Beatings, the King says, are discipline, not cruelties. Beatings rebuke one in a way that cannot be denied or ignored—beatings chastise us for an unwise move. They are nature's way of humbling us. They keep us from growing too proud to believe we cannot be harmed, from growing too bold and arrogant that we question those who hold power over us. We all must succumb to beatings—of the mind, body, and soul—and therefore by using beatings as a force of punishment, the inevitable is used as a tool instead of a waste.

At least, so he says.

I sigh irritably, resting my head on my paws as I speculatively watch the guards move about. One of them mutters something under his breath, the light rasping of metal sliding over itself echoing as I shift for a better view. I can hardly make out anything, though my sensitive ears manage to detect the faintest of muted thunders. It rolls through the floor subtly, and my eyes narrow as I recognize the motion immediately.

So he returns.

Instead of pleased that the Black Dragon has not forsaken me to my solitude, I feel angry and unsatisfied with his absence. Could not he have visited me—just once? I realize my petulance is not because of his actions, but because of my own misery. So many long months spent in a dungeon, with none for companionship…and then he appears, and it seems the faintest flicker of light breaks the darkness, allowing me the briefest of contacts.

But then reality snuffed it out, and I was left to the darkness once more.

I longed for a friend—for someone to talk with and share memories with—yet I knew none were forthcoming. I ___needed _someone to talk to, yet I knew that none would listen. And so I had grown bitterly resentful to the Black Dragon for so easily having offered me pleasure and then snatched it away.

The rumbling of his steps grows.

I stare gloomily at my cell, wishing if for naught else, my sight. I hate this darkness—this blackness that never leaves. For a time, I dreaded it, dreaded every second of sightlessness. Because I knew that without my sight—the very last solid thing I could anchor myself to—my sanity would deteriorate. It had happened once before—when I was but a young hatchling, mere weeks old, and punishment was served as a month in darkness.

I do not recall how I rescued myself from it, nor how I survived those hazy weeks of despair.

The light scuffling of claws scraping the floor gently reaches my ears, and the guards straighten reflexively.

How lucky, I muse, Shruikan is for his ability to wander the castle freely, without the restraint of chains or bars. I know what he would say if I voiced such a thing—'I am far more bound of heart than you could imagine to the King', most probably. But still, I would trade my soul and more if I could just be ___him—_if I could see my Rider every day, if I could wander about without these cruel, cold chains digging into my back every moment, if I could see ___light _and ___people _that would cower before me rather than shrink away in disgust. If I could just waltz around as I pleased, without concern for attack since none would dare defy ___me; _that I would be the most admirable and courageous one these men would lay eyes upon, that ___I _would be the one to which they knelt and murmured apologies, to which they pled mercy and flattered me so as not to infuriate me.

To me, he conveys the great sorrow and misery of his life—a listless one spent obliging orders from a ___Tyrant. _A cold shiver works down my spine, though I ignore it. My envy grows at the thought—that he might speak, ___think, _so freely, without the worry of pain constantly prodding at his back. That his thoughts are his own, not influenced heavily by some sadistic bast—

___Might I have a word with the hatchling? _asks a deep, authoritative voice, interrupting my thoughts. Though the words are clearly directed toward the three guards posted outside my cell, I can almost hear them addressing myself.

___Go away, _I growl at him silently, though he ignores it. I can sense through his eyes as he looks down contemptuously at the guards, each as stiff as a board from suppressed terror.

"Of course," murmurs one bravely, speaking softly to hide the tremor in his voice. He shuffles over to the door, disappearing from my line of sight almost immediately when he angles left. I snort once in frustration, though moments later a yawning hole appears in the wall, sliding back smoothly to admit the Black Dragon.

He steps inside, feigning disdain for the guards as they nervously seal the door behind him. Once the door has been shut, he orders, ___Now leave us. I shall watch the hatchling. _ Each hesitates, and I glean from a quick searching of their minds the mirroring worry for being caught by Galb—the King away from their guard. ___You will have far more to worry if you do not obey than the King's wrath, _Shruikan threatens.

The guards all but flee, leaving the empty corridor silent.

Shruikan lazily fixes me with an amused stare, and I growl at him in return. ___Why did you leave like that? _I demand, ignoring how childish it sounds.

___What? Now I have to accompany you at every turn? No, Thorn, and do not expect it either. You'll be gravely disappointed otherwise. _

Something of his tone surprises me, though I cannot pinpoint it. ___What do you want, then? Last time you came to… well, I don't even know what, but why are you here now if you supposedly can't come? _I realize I am rambling somewhat, though I let it pass.

He smiles sadly, just a twitch of his lips curling upward, before opening his maw.

There, sitting delicately upon his reddish-black tongue, is a remarkably green stone. I back slowly from him as though he has just showed me some gruesome sight I wish not to see again, and my eyes stray upward to his confused stare. Shaking my head, I continue my retreat, chains straining by the time I finally stop.

He hasn't moved.

___Why are you showing me this? _I ask at length. My eyes wander back to the stone, fixated upon the pulsing white veins and sharp contrast of jade and black. I feel suddenly dizzied. ___I don't want to see it, _I say, almost sick. ___Please, _I add. He bows his head solemnly.

___I came here to ask you a favor, _he murmurs.

I glance at the stone apprehensively, though he shakes his head. ___No. I need you to be on your guard, Thorn. _

To this, I raise an eyebrow. ___Why? _

___A short while ago, someone—actually, a small group—attempted to infiltrate our forces and steal this. _He closes his jaw slowly, concealing the egg once more. ___They succeeded in getting here—to Urû'baen—and even stealing an even more valuable possession. A map. _

___A map? _I repeat, unconvinced.

___Yes. It maps out near the entirety of Urû'baen's structure, and now it is in their hands. _

___They will not be a problem to us. _

___Ah, but that is _******exactly**___ the problem. They won't. But they'll believe that they might. _

___Your point? _

___Think about it. _

He falls silent, leaving me to do but as he said. I mull over the question for several long, frustrating moments. If the Varden have a map of Urû'baen, they have a valuable tool to infiltrating our grounds. But there is no way they could slip past undetected, for our sorcerers would detect the treachery at work. Unless… ___No, _I groan in horror.

___Ah yes, now you see. _

___Shruikan… _I growl, inwardly horrified at the prospect. No, no, no—if they think that they have even a ___chance, _they'll send ___her… _

___As I said, be on your guard. _

___Why? _

But he shakes his head, terribly silent. ___Shruikan! _

___Shruikan, _a voice orders in a purr, interrupting us both. I recoil and Shruikan flinches, otherwise unmoving. I retreat to the back of my cell, my furor fading to barely concealed fear. ___Come here. _

___Yes, Galbatorix, _responds Shruikan with the same toneless pitch as a stone. His expression didn't change, though I sensed his inner dismay at being summoned. To my astonishment, I also sense a confused emotion, mingled with worry and curiosity, radiating from him.

No, I realize, not him.

I shiver, pressing the hatchling's emotions away with a stern ___back. _The hatchling retreats, confused and fearful, though I spare it not a moment more as Shruikan lurches back.

___I must go, _he comments drearily. ___Goodbye. _

___Again, you come with no other purpose than to leave, _I seethe. In truth, it is not anger, but sorrow. So soon I trust again, and so soon it is broken.

___No; I warned you, _he retorts to my unspoken thought. Before I can protest, he disappears.

I curse silently in frustration.

* * *

******Saphira**

I am amazed at the ease at which we have entered Urû'baen.

After several long hours, we walk freely amongst the city's inhabitants, myself at a distance while Eragon mingles at the edges of the loose crowds. Beggars line the street corners, while drunkards toast each other in taverns. Guards patrol with stiff demeanors of discomfort and suspicion, sparing no one under their scrutiny. Occasionally, one roughly shoulders past an elderly folk, or harshly reprimands children playing in the streets. A beggar's meager earnings are toppled over as a guard presumptuously trots over them, leaving the poor man to crouch over and scoop his few coins back into the dirtied pouch.

Low buildings predominate taller ones, though whether out of laziness or lack of supplies, I cannot tell. Most are wooden; occasionally a stout stone-based one squeezes between them. Smoke winds up from narrow chimneys, creating the illusion of fog above with so many buildings crammed together. Alleys are near nonexistent, so narrow in places only a very thin child might be able to squeeze through them. Well-tended horses clop down the streets, forcing aside pedestrians with the same callousness as their mounts. The Empire's insignia—three claw marks and a red flame—shines proudly from atop their helms and shields. A mace seems the chosen weapon, though I see a number with swords belted to their waist.

Overall, the atmosphere is grim. Each face is haggard, and distraught with the weariness war has brought about. They hunger, and thirst, and long for lighter taxes and better fields to graze. They are heartbroken over their lost beloveds, and anguished at the thought of sending more to be sacrificed. They are irritable with the tyrannical King, in their murmurs cleverly disguised insults and threats. They are wise enough not to directly voice such treason.

And I pity them.

I can sense the shared pain of the city—of how each member bears their own physical and emotional scars. The painful limp of a young man caught upon a mace ages him before his time; the dull ache of winter upon a true old man's bones rouses him forever from true sleep. A young girl giggles with another, shying away as a guard roughly shoos them; a mother weeps over the news of her dead husband. A baker worries himself over the sorry shortage in flour; an herbalist dreads cleaning up a haphazard experiment gone wrong. A merchant all but begs buyers to come, though his enthusiastic calls prove fruitless; a guard subtly adjusts the bandages covering his torso, beneath which lies a ragged scar from a sword-slash. A young woman panics silently in a corner as she is cornered by several drunken guards; an elder lady leans on her niece's arm as they chat gloomily and make their way home, the lady mourning silently how aged her sister's daughter looks.

I seal away my mind, silently bowing my head to their pain. No one deserves this. And if I could, I would end it, though I cannot.

As I watch, a slave is beaten before my eyes, all to the amusement of the jeering bystanders. The dark-skinned man begs mercy, only to have a harsh kick delivered to his side. I hear his soft cry, though he dutifully retrieves the wares he has dropped accidentally. Anger boils within me, though I contain my rage and move ahead, turning a blind eye to the incident as the beatings grow more severe and the man's subtle cries more pained.

___War begets sorrow, _I murmur to Eragon, who subtly nods in return. He strides with the same gracelessness as before, just as human as the rest of them. Though not clumsy, the awkward shuffle of his feet that so mirrors their own nearly has me in laughter compared to the calm strides of an elf he once possessed. He, too, seems vexed by his sudden inability to walk as coolly before, though Glaedr's mirth pours over us both and lightens our moods somewhat.

The golden dragon had proved an invaluable source of information when it came to slipping inside the city undetected. Once we had neared the range of a soldier's sight, he'd commanded Eragon to recite an unusual spell that, rather than shielding myself, repelled any who came near. Not so noticeably as they could not touch me, but to a level where anyone who sighted me was immediately convinced that there had been nothing there. Certainly the spell was imperfect—the person would still see a faint shimmer of my form, though it would be the indistinguishable glint of light that one cannot be certain was anything at all. And so it was rather foolproof—anyone within a league would be turned aside from my presence without even consciously knowing it.

The spell, as I expected, required a large deal of energy to commence, and then a steady stream to supplement every time a person sighted me. Glaedr willingly volunteered the majority of his strength, and between him and I we lent Eragon sufficient energy to shield myself initially. From there, Aren—the sapphire ring turned upside-down on his finger so as not to attract unwanted attention—would supply the power needed to sustain such a spell.

The first test had been the guards—at first, I worried they had spotted us, as one glanced suspiciously in my direction. Yet the spell had proven true, and he'd muttered something unintelligible and confusedly rejoined his compatriots.

The only disadvantage to the spell was that it ___was _so effective—it worked almost too well at first. A crowd had cleared around myself, and soon Eragon appeared far too singled out for comfort. Fortunately we had remedied this error before anyone had noticed, and now I kept a discreet distance from him while hugging the walls so as to keep the 'shield' around me as small as possible.

The problem came when Eragon noted to me that he couldn't see anything amidst such a dense crowd—it was near impossible to distinguish anyone, let alone landmarks. I had questioned Glaedr on such, though he'd had little solution either. ___Sorry, _he had commented meekly at my frustration. Luckily for us, a discarded cane proved a most useful tool, and by jerking his cloak over his head somewhat, Eragon effectively took up the role of a blind man. His clouded blue eyes were more than enough evidence to fool any passerby, and after several rough jostles, the crowd seemed to avoid him somewhat as well. Not enough to single him out, but enough to grant him the freedom to walk without fear of bumping into someone. The cane, then, just became a device for the act rather than the practicality of the situation.

___You'd think I carried the plague from the way they avoid me, _he comments with a mental chuckle. When I send a questioning thought toward him, he answers, ___The guards. Look._

I turn my head slightly, a young scribe bustling about and suddenly glancing off to the left as though met with an invisible barrier as he inadvertently walks near me. With a slightly puzzled look, he shakes his head and continues on, humming quietly to himself. Shaking my head, I refocus my gaze on what Eragon has pointed out to me. There I spot a pair of burly guards harassing several of the townsfolk, purposefully avoiding the half-hunched figure mixed in. I chuckle silently to myself, nodding once in agreement.

___Indeed. Though it is probably to our benefit. _

Bowing his head slightly in a nod, Eragon continues along, heading eastward as I follow, my path parallel to his. Occasionally I fear the spell has worn off, as a bystander catches my eyes. The understanding glint there freezes me, though with a confused shake of their head, they pass. True, no cries of alarm have sounded and none have shouted or screamed to my direction. But I still cannot help but feel terribly exposed walking amongst these people—indirectly my enemies—so freely.

Ahead, looming like a beast crouching in shadow, is the castle of Urû'baen, infamous lair of King Galbatorix and his black dragon Shruikan. Its stony walls rise high above the rest of the city, the lowly buildings crouched beneath it like dwarves amidst a giant's presence. The large watchtowers at its corners brim with guards, each containing at least one magician that quests out constantly for information. I feel the repelling shield around me hide myself from their sight as effectively as if I were not there. Truly, I am invisible to all.

Eragon, however, plays a tricky game with the magicians. His mind is guarded well from them, and he does his best to divert their attention to other things. Unlike myself, his shielding is like a dense, impenetrable fog, to which suspicion is raised. Soon, I know, we must either totally dissuade their mental searching, or we will be discovered.

But sooner, the crowds thin, and the buildings become more and more militaristic. Armories replace common shops, and infirmaries fill any gaps in between. The affectionate sarcasm of street vendors becomes the pained moaning of the dying, and the sorrowful murmurs of those tending them. The number of guards increases drastically, and soon Eragon discards his cane and lowers his cloak further. His own paranoia as we move to the north and circumvent the majority of guards seems to seep into me from our link, and I soon find myself glancing over my shoulder every few moments or so, convinced ___something _is following.

___Saphira, _chortles Glaedr, ___there is nothing following you, for nothing can see you. Calm down. _

Though I cannot logically deny his statement, I also cannot deny the urge to check, feeling somewhat ridiculous.

___Somewhat? _

___Oh hush. _

The rumbling laughter echoes in my head until quieting as we reach a darker passage. Eragon murmurs a word of the ancient language and suddenly disappears—visibly, anyway. The spell, I sense, has already depleted a vast amount of energy from Aren, though an infinitely greater amount still pools there, waiting to be tapped into. Hopefully this mission will not diminish the strange ring's supply entirely, for with such energy, I can only imagine the advantages it would have to combat Galbatorix.

We stand before a ragged tunnel, carved roughly into the wall and visibly only as Eragon magically presses aside the sizeable stone blocking its path. Inside, the stink of sewage radiates, and we're both forced to swallow our disgust and slip inside. Mercifully, none of the waste is around, though its stench is powerful and rancid.

___Good gods, _Eragon swears as we continue.

___I thought you didn't believe in gods, _I chide, mostly to distract myself. My nose scrunches up; the feeling is definitely mutual. Glaedr chuckles quietly from his Eldunarí, genuinely amused at our predicament.

___I don't, _Eragon sniffs in mock offense.

___Mmmm, _I agree dubiously.

We continue through the putrid tunnel, plenty large for a dragon of my size. The walls are ragged, though slick with something of water. There is no light of any form to be seen, though it is clear that we are gradually moving upward from the gentle sloping of the ground. We need not refer to the map to know where we are going, though it brings no comfort to either of us. Eventually, this will lead to a corridor, and from there, it is a race against time to escape Galbatorix's detection and steal the egg.

Water sloshes at our feet, though thankfully it is just that. Both Eragon and I breathe silent sighs of relief at this fact, for the smell nearly makes us retch despite this realization. Eventually, I spot the faintest of outlines ahead, Eragon wandering blindly at my side as I allow my bluish sight to guide me. I can soon distinguish a door-like object, and from there, the very soft scuffling of boots upon stone. As I watch in something of horror, the stone door is pressed back nonchalantly, revealing a tall, dark-haired man, lean in figure and broad-shouldered.

"Greetings," the man calls pleasantly to us. A snarl ripples in my throat. "Have you come to us so soon?"

___Murtagh, _both Eragon and I think, torn between irritation and dismay.

___We were expected, _Eragon comments.

___Set-up is more like it, _I return, glaring at the young man as he strides forward calmly, Zar'roc belted to his waist.

"What took you so long?" he asks, and for the first time I recall he shouldn't even be able to see me. I growl low in frustration.

___How can you see me? _I demand at last. He chuckles, the sound almost genuinely amused.

"You underestimate my training. Come—we mustn't keep the King waiting," he beckons, gesturing with a hand invitingly toward the exit. I step back in protest. Eragon does as well. With a sigh, Murtagh adds woefully, "So stubborn, you two are. Perhaps the King can handle that. But come—and I shall not have to hurt you."

I lash my tail in protest, and Glaedr all but roars from his Eldunarí. Raising an eyebrow in polite surprise, Murtagh steps forward. "So you do carry with you the Eldunarí of the Golden Dragon. How helpful—the King will be very pleased. Perhaps he won't beat you because of it." The last line is added scathingly, though Eragon and I ignore it. "Come along, hand it over," beckons Murtagh. I growl, snapping my teeth at him. With an exaggerated sigh, he holds out a hand, commanding a string of words too fast for myself or Eragon to catch.

Glaedr roars from his Eldunarí as it calmly slips out of the sack and into Murtagh's waiting hands. He flashes a triumphant grin at us, before turning to leave. I attempt to shoot a fireball at him—to scorch him for what he is doing—but suddenly the heat within me is just an uncomfortable simmering. There is no power behind it—the same as magma lying dormant in a volcano. Heat without strength is useless.

"Oh, and you might as well forget that," comments Murtagh over his shoulder. "This air you've been breathing for roughly a quarter hour neutralizes dragon fire."

"___Thrysta vindr," _intones Eragon in protest.

Nothing happens.

Murtagh chuckles, shaking a head of well-kempt blackened-brown hair. "Magic doesn't work, either."

"You used magic," returns Eragon.

Murtagh shrugs. "True, in a way. But I have not been breathing the fumes for nearly as long as you have, and am in no way as susceptible to it as you are. If you will, I've developed an immunity to it."

In some ways, his haughty explanations are casual and familiar, almost friendly banter. But in others, they are far more frustrating than the callous responses he should be giving. "Where are you going?" Eragon demands, like I unable to retreat or advance. Having been discovered now it would be futile, yet Murtagh does not seem concerned that we ___could _walk out. I stare at him in confusion as he leaves down the corridor, whistling a child's tune as he carries Glaedr's Eldunarí.

___You're just leaving? No threats, no force? _I ask, incredulous. He turns to face me with a puzzled expression.

"Haven't I already threatened you? The King will be quite displeased, as you could guess, and you've no real way to escape now, so I've 'forced' you into following." He smirks, and suddenly I realize that he was ordered to do just that—threaten us once we came, and use force to get us to follow.

I groan in exasperation.

He nods knowingly as a look of understanding crosses my face. "See, now you realize it. Well, I'll be heading down this way—must get this—" he taps Glaedr's Eldunarí lightly "—to the King."

"You call him the King like he's a good man," Eragon growls.

Murtagh shrugs very slightly. "He is the King, isn't he? What else should I call him?" Something in his voice implies otherwise, though—something of ___wanting _but not being able to. Trapped.

___You don't want to call him the King, _I put in. I can see the flash of agreement cross his face before he hides it.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he concedes, shrugging again. "But, you know, all this chatter is just wasting the King's time. Come along—as I said, I do not want to harm you but if you force me to I shall."

Eragon growls, drawing his sword and severing the shields covering us belatedly. Murtagh gives a disapproving tut-tut before casually flicking his wrist to the side. ___Brisingr _slips from Eragon's grasp as easily as a wet eel, landing with a muted clatter on the floor. Murtagh smiles wolfishly, pleased with himself. "Now, are you coming or not?"

"What do you think?" snaps Eragon.

Murtagh sighs, sounding both bored and dismayed. "All right then."

Blackness envelopes us both so quickly I do not recall hitting the floor.

0

'___This is my world.'_

******Shruikan**

___Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it. _

The constant mantra in my head only causes me to glance down more often at the sapphire dragoness limp in my jaws. I am more than thrice her size, though I still feel suddenly too weak to continue as I gaze down at her. She is so young, I think with sudden weariness, and so innocent. At least, innocent compared to Thorn and I. I am forced to drag her along the smooth marble floor beside me as there is no effective way to carry her through the corridors. Still, I have taken the subtle precaution to tuck her wings back so they do not catch and tear on the stone beneath her.

Ahead, the young Rider—Murtagh—moves along, carrying both the saliva-covered egg which he has wrapped in his cloak and the Golden Dragon's Eldunarí. I recall tale of the Golden Dragon's existence, though I did not believe it possible. After all, we had destroyed the Riders—every last one to be found. We had scoured the lands countless times to be sure our mission was accomplished, the heartbreaking scene of dead dragons always meeting us.

Apparently, we were wrong.

For however he did it, he survived, and thus we were confronted with a new mission—to capture his Eldunarí as well.

I pad along silently behind Murtagh, allowing him to lead the way.

Despite his amiable demeanor, I can sense the deep sorrow within him, and the longing that is almost identical to Thorn's. Galbatorix's first order was that they not see each other unless summoned by he, and even then only when summoned and only as permitted. The throbbing broken-heartedness from both of them is near overpowering, though accompanying my own despair, it is just another rhythm of sadness.

Lying limply upon my back is the dragoness' Rider—Eragon, from what Murtagh has informed me. I can only hope Galbatorix chooses not to be too terribly cruel with them, otherwise I fear they will not survive the month.

At least, not until he's gotten what he wants.

Involuntarily, my teeth clench around the warm neck inside my jaws as I growl at the thought. It is only when a trickle of coppery blood pools into my mouth do I recall what I am biting down upon and I relieve the pressure immediately. Such a slackening nearly causes her to slip from my jaws, and I flare my wings outward to steady myself as I catch her. Murtagh pauses up ahead, turning to glance back at me with a look torn between bemusement and sadness. Shaking his head at my awkward catch, he moves forward again, and I slowly follow.

The thought of her—this beautiful, innocent dragoness—being used for such evil purposes is repulsive. I know it is wrong to harbor any affection towards her, but I cannot deny the protective feeling that overwhelms me. To have destroyed all other dragons and then to find one—just one who remains untainted by our malevolence—is a reward beyond any other. But I know that once she has served Galbatorix's purposes, she will be just another female as were the many others, and she will be killed.

I shudder at the thought.

Dragging her along, I blush reflexively when her tail brushes my right hind leg, her warm breath absently bathing over my neck. I resolutely keep myself from thinking anything of the gesture, though the heat seems to burn in my cheeks. Mercifully, it does not show—even the hot red blush cannot breach the black scales on my face.

I reach outward as a consciousness prods stubbornly at my own. It is feeble and fleeting, like the brush of questing fingers as they slip just out of reach of an object too far. As my own consciousness slips cautiously forward, the being exuberantly latches onto mine. Pleasure, confusion, relief, dismay, fear, and upset all vie for my attention, an almost giddying sensation. I force myself to retreat, ___sadness _flinging itself at me as I slip out of its reach. Like a child's game, the treat stolen from their grasp, the being quests urgently, trying in vain to reach me.

___Calm down, _I urge. The overriding dismay at my departure overwhelms the creature, who continues to thrust the desperate wanting for my presence to return.

___Where are you? Where are you? _The question, though unspoken, rings clear, and I hesitantly allow myself to merge with them. Warm waves of contentment wash over me—___Here I am, _I reply, the words calming the small hatchling within the egg more than any chiding.

___There you are, _he seems to answer. Slowly, I convince the green hatchling to settle, quelling his uneasy emotions with assuring feelings, and insisting that he cannot continue to contact me with a firm ___stay away. _

___Why? _

The hurt, sorrow, and confusion in his emotions is nearly overpowering—my resolve wavers before I harden my heart and force his conscious back.

___Stay away, _I urge with a strong emotion of ___repulsion, _and ___evil. _The hatchling whimpers, and I can sense him scrabbling weakly at the egg's shell.

___No, _he begs, ___sorrow _and ___desperation._

I close my eyes. ___Don't talk to me, _I order, and repel__him with a wave of ___fear, evil, _and ___danger. _

The green dragon's conscious retreats, slowly at first before I add an extra wave, to which he all but flees, locking his conscious from mine as best he can. I sigh, sealing the contact on my half as well.

He mustn't speak to me, I tell myself. He mustn't. If Galbatorix knew I harbored any friendship with the green hatchling, it would give him only more reason to destroy him. Still, the heartbroken emotion radiating from the hatchling makes my own heart sink in my chest. I realize guiltily that the hatchling has found myself to be an anchor in a constantly changing world. Someone consistently ___there_—and worse, he's recognized I'll always be here.

So long as I do not perish as well.

I curse quietly, dragging the dragoness beneath me. None must attach themselves to me—for all I will do is drag them down eventually. I can offer pitifully little, and eventually am forced to be traitorous to all. Thorn, I know, I must detach myself from as well, for the way he reacted to my return was exactly as I feared.

He ___missed _me. He missed someone to talk to—just as the hatchling now misses me. And this will ultimately destroy them both, unless I end it now.

Thorn knows not to contact me, as I shall not he anymore. The hatchling I have repelled as well. So I have accomplished what I should—I have driven away any who might form bonds with me. I have forced back any who might miss or cherish my presence, and forced them to hate me instead.

I hope.

Though instead of pleased, I feel only more miserable.

For I know that for everyone else's good, I must not exist.

* * *

******Saphira**

I groggily awake, cold marble beneath me. I groan at the ache in my neck, feeling a set of teeth impressed there. My eyes flare open suddenly, narrowing almost immediately after.

___Galbatorix, _I snarl.

"Welcome," he greets, as pleasant as any host. He sits upon an ebony throne, his countenance triumphant. A black cloak is draped around his shoulders, flowing partially onto the throne beneath him. To my surprise, it is not an elaborate piece, rather a simple chair-like statue carved from marble. Flanking his left side is Murtagh, bearing the same listless obedience as a dog does to an abusive master. He stands straight, though there is no defiance in his eyes, nor any hope in his expression.

Beside me, a low growl ripples, drawing my attention.

An involuntary growl escapes me in turn as I glare at the black behemoth before me. He glances down at me contemptuously, a disdainful sneer on his lips. He crouches as I do, ready to spring if necessary. I snap my teeth at him, though he doesn't flinch. Pleading is written in his eyes as he bows his head in a gesture that would otherwise be threatening, and for a moment I can almost see tears glinting there. Still, the rest of him suggests otherwise, and I find no pity for him.

"Shruikan," rebukes Galbatorix, "we mustn't treat our guests so rudely, now, should we?"

My narrowed gaze returns to him, as does the black dragon's, though I do not settle. An almighty rumbling suddenly issues from the dragon's throat, sending a strong vibration through the floor that causes loose stones to topple from their foundations. ___Silence, _the growl unmistakably commands, and I oblige without comment. I straighten in an attempt to appear unfazed, though compared to the monstrous creature beside me, I have no hope of seeming such.

"Well. Now that we understand each other, I suppose you wonder why you are here," continues Galbatorix. I lower my head with a hiss, though a sharp nudge to my shoulder quiets me. I glance incredulously at the black dragon at my side, whose head returns to its earlier position just as I look. His eyes flick down to me before glancing back at Galbatorix, expectant. A silent conversation seems to be held between them, though I sense not the slightest of mental influences. Their gazes locked, Shruikan finally concedes with a bow of his head, Galbatorix's lip twitching upward in a mocking grin.

"I would hope you don't find his behavior too offensive," he apologizes, waving a hand toward Shruikan. To my astonishment, the black dragon bows his head to me before lifting it once more. "He's not very accustomed to other dragons," dismisses Galbatorix. "But hopefully you will acquaint yourself—well, yourselves—well with him."

Shruikan's lip lifts in a snarl, though with a single pointed glance at him, Galbatorix settles him. "Now," he continues, "There's many things to address now that you're here."

___Where's Eragon? _I demand. Shruikan fixes me with a disapproving glance, though Galbatorix smiles politely.

"___Vakna,_" he commands.

My head jerks to the side as someone groans. Eragon shuffles about for a moment before he, too, opens his eyes, glancing around blearily. The whiteness shrouding his sight has not abated; if anything, it has grown thicker. I reach toward him though a sluggish barrier meets me and I growl curses. Shruikan prods my shoulder again with his head in rebuke, though I snap my teeth at him and he retreats.

___Eragon? _I ask, though he doesn't respond.

"What…?" he asks instead, holding his head. He glances ahead, giving a slight start as he recognizes—or at least notices—Galbatorix and Murtagh. I nudge his shoulder mutely and he jerks to see what it is, though with a relieved glance he pats my snout. He wordlessly glances back at the tyrant king and his pet-servant, eyes narrowing in similar distaste. Sharing a brief glance with me, the message is easily read: ___We're in trouble. _I bob my head slightly in a nod.

Shruikan growls suddenly, interrupting our silent conversing.

"You realize, now," drawls the 'King', "that you've but one choice. Join me. Forcibly, or willingly."

I snort, and Eragon mirrors my distaste by narrowing his eyes and glaring at Galbatorix.

_"__Never,_" we both deny.

He chuckles, mirthlessly, and Shruikan sends a meaningful glance at myself. ___Be wary. _

"I figured as much." He pauses, cocking his head to once side thoughtfully. "Well; I'll give you a week, and if you are still of the same state of mind, then I'll take further action. Until then… Murtagh, Shruikan, care to escort our guests__to their quarters?"

With mirroring bows from Murtagh and Shruikan, Murtagh strides over to Eragon calmly, unperturbed by Galbatorix's decree, and hooks an arm around Eragon's to drag him to his feet. Shruikan similarly locks his jaws around my neck, hauling me upright. I snap my teeth venomously at him, though he calmly bows his head, fixing me with a reprimanding stare. ___Don't fight me, _is written in that expression, and he flashes a smile that is more threatening than playful.

I draw back slightly from him, though he corners me with his tail. ___Come along, _he urges silently, dipping his head away from Galbatorix. I growl at him in protest. Shruikan sighs, sparing Galbatorix a brief glance, brow furrowing and relaxing almost too fast to recognize. And then, looking back at me, he commands in a low rumble, ___Come. _

His voice is so startling that my feet traitorously lurch forward, and he snags my wings with one of his, trapping them to my sides as he walks alongside me. A smirk plays on his face and I growl, attempts to snap at him futile. I try to shake off his wing, though my strength is suddenly gone, and I all but collapse to the floor. Shruikan doesn't even glance in my direction, nor relieve the pressure of his wing on mine.

___Just walk, _he orders tonelessly. I struggle against him, though my efforts grow weaker as the energy drains from me. With an undeterminable sigh, Shruikan glances at me before gripping my neck and half-leading, half-dragging me from the room. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Eragon slouches slightly, weakened.

___What is this? _I snap at Shruikan once my strength slowly returns. He is silent, though a deep grating sound emanates from him as he drags me forward. Laughter, I knew, with an oddly embarrassed feeling. He calmly pulls me after him, the corridor becoming darker and darker for some reason. Quite suddenly, my vision fades, and then disappears entirely. I thrash in Shruikan's jaws in protest, though he seems un-bothered.

___What is this? _I repeat, insistent.

___My world, _he murmurs, though more to himself than me.

I struggle, though his grip tightens unrelentingly. Again my strength wanes, so drastically this time I barely manage to remain conscious. ___The more you fight the more you lose, _he informs neutrally.

I pant quietly, glancing around in vain. So much darkness—how does he know where to go?

___Like I said, this is my world, _he dismisses.

___Stay out of my head, _I snarl.

___Bit too late for that. _Like Murtagh, his words ring true, but his tone implies otherwise. I glance up at him curiously, snapping my jaws slightly. He snorts a puff of gray smoke, though his jaws remain locked.

___Let me go. _

___Too late for that as well, _he muses.

___Shruikan! _

He flinches, jaw slackening slightly, and I wrench myself free. Glancing around, the familiar blue haze glows along two symmetrical stone walls. Nothing is before us and, sparing a hopeful glance over my shoulder, I am dismayed to find the same behind us. Shruikan sighs, marching forward with a slight shake of his head. ___Come along, then, _he says simply. I stare at him, unmoved. He glances back at me, adding, ___Do you really wish for me to drag you the whole way? _

I growl and step back, though the same drop in energy assaults me. He snorts. ___You're doing yourself no favors. Just follow me and it'll go much better. _

I step back again, shaking my head vehemently. ___Never, _I growl, retreating still. ___Never. _

Pain washes over me. It begins like the flare of heat not unlike stepping on hot charcoals, eventually erupting into an inferno that scorches through me. I hiss sharply, though I refuse to cry out. The twin attacks—heat and energy loss—make my steps shaky, though Shruikan makes no move to stop my retreat. I collapse nearly a dozen yards away, unable to even walk. I lash my tail weakly, baring my fangs to him as he approaches calmly.

___You should learn to listen to me, _he comments.

I growl as he seizes my neck again—though not roughly, part of me notes. Glaring at his blurry black scales, I watch as my bluish sight vanishes, replaced by blackness once more. ___What-? _

___I told you already. My world, _he cuts me off.

___What do you mean? _

He tilts his head to the side and the darkness before me shifts accordingly. I growl. ___Why? _I demand.

He shrugs. ___Galbatorix doesn't want you to discover where you are being taken—not that it matters much. Nothing here to be seen anyway. _

___How can you see, then? _

He rolls his eyes, the motion almost dizzying to me. ___This is my world, _he repeats for the umpteenth time, ___I know how to navigate it. Sight is just another tool—I don't need it. _He shrugs as though this is the most obvious answer there is.

I draw myself back slightly; the black dissipates, replaced by blue. I strain further against him, though before I can get a clear glimpse, the darkness smothers my vision once more. I knock my head against his neck harshly in protest. He grunts, one of the short spikes on my head slipping beneath his scales, though he pulls me away wordlessly. ___You know, you're really beginning to be irritating. _

___Well, at least the feeling's mutual. _

___Clever, _he snorts, rolling his eyes again. I claw at him futilely.

The strange energy-sapping spell nearly overpowers me, my senses falling silent for several moments before I am once more aware of Shruikan doggedly dragging me down the corridor. ___You really oughtta stop doing that, _he says in a drawl before catching his casualness. He stiffens before glaring ahead, moving along almost mechanically. I writhe in his grip in a last attempt to break free; his jaws clamp down harder upon my neck and I grimace. Finally, after what seems hours of struggling, I give up with a sigh.

Shruikan does not offer any more conversation, nor do I attempt to breach the silence. I notice that as we move, we descend, and gradually the air grows colder. Soon, both Shruikan and my breaths are visible, though he doesn't comment. I hang pitifully from his jaws, unable to protest for lack of strength and motivation.

I wonder absently where he is taking me, though more I quest out toward Eragon, hoping to figure out what has become of him. My efforts are in vain—not even the slightest of contacts exist. I know he is alive, and I know he is well, but that is all.

I sigh in frustration.

Abruptly, I smell human—three. They stink of sweat and blood, and I can hear their irritable grumbling already. As Shruikan pads along—myself sliding across the floor like a rag—the humans stiffen, talk silencing and postures straightening. I glance up at Shruikan expectantly, though he again remains silent.

Three guards enter my line of sight and I snarl at them. With startled exclamations, they barely suppress their amazement as Shruikan coolly strides past them. He moves over to something too dark to make out, and with a lurch stone is drawn back.

I stiffen as the deep snuffing sound of a hissing breath reaches me; Shruikan's dark sight retreats. A growl rumbles in my chest, and hot breath fills my throat.

For there, crouched defensively in the far corner, is what can only be Thorn.

* * *

******Thorn **

I lift my head, a dry snarl building in my throat as I sense his return—the ___Black Dragon_'s return.

What does he care for now? I was certain we'd already established he would ___stay away, _not return just to leave. I fling my consciousness outward, stunned to discover a rather hazy one accompanying Shruikan's. I encircle it slowly, prodding at it hopefully for response. When none is forthcoming, I snort and retreat to myself, sulking. Who has he brought now? Another idiotic human, perhaps.

To my astonishment and horror, a flash of blue catches my sight. Sniffing the air curiously, I stumble back as the wall opens, Shruikan pausing at its entrance. I back away, shaking my head in disbelief. ___No, no, no_. He steps inside, holding in his jaws a growling dragoness. I pause only once I can back no further, the chains cruelly keeping me from retreat. I cast a withering glance at Shruikan, though he calmly releases her. She lands on the ground almost limply, her growl unrelenting. Forcing herself to her feet, she glares at me.

___Galbatorix, _begins Shruikan, a flash of white-hot pain shooting up my spine, ___has ordered that I bring you to stay here. _He addresses the dragoness, though my eyes are wide as I stare at him.

___You cannot be serious, _I say to him silently.

___You will not harm him, _continues the Black Dragon, not answering my question, ___or you her. _For the first time since he's entered, his gaze falls upon me. A strange, unreadable emotion glints there. ___Do you understand? _The dragoness snaps her jaws defiantly. I bow my head submissively, though a snarl teases the edges of my lips. Shruikan sighs, shaking his own head slowly, before moving back to leave. The dragoness suddenly flares her wings—___glorious, _I think, staring at them—and roars at Shruikan. I cannot catch her words, though the Black Dragon stiffens noticeably.

And then he is gone.

I stare in wide-eyed surprise at the blue dragon across from me—unbound. Armed with talons and teeth, and a barbed tail. Shruikan's words ring clear in my head, though glancing at her I cannot help but flinch slightly from the murderous look in her eyes. I shuffle back uncomfortably, hating to be bound so. If I were not so open—and so bound—I would not be so cowardly, and yet…

She suddenly leaps forward, to confront me face-to-face. A growl—caught between a roar and a snarl—issues from her maw as she stares me down. I roar back, though the muzzle-like structure on my face prevents me from obtaining the power necessary to be frightening. Still, she pauses, glancing at me with a snort, before snapping her jaws at me. I snap mine almost reflexively, a slight click echoing in the cell.

___Thorn, _she growls, and I have nothing to say to that but to growl in turn. She pauses, surprised by the sudden malice in my tone, though mimics my unspoken threats with her own.

For a time, we just stand there, I crouched leaning back against the far wall, and her barely a foot away, glaring down at me. Snapping her jaws with finality, she whirls around, purposefully allowing the painful spikes on her tail to gouge my neck. I wince secretly, keeping my face expressionless with an effort as the blow reopens barely-healed wounds. She does not turn to look at me, though I sense pain radiating from her as she groans and staggers ahead. Shaking her head before my confused eyes, she seats herself at the opposite end of the cell, as far away from me as she can be. I allow the blood to flow freely down my neck, not attempting to perhaps lick at it through the chains to halt the rivulet. No—I allow her to see clearly that I am unaffected by it, and that I will not crumple so easily. On the outside, anyway.

Resting my head on my paws, I glance at her suspiciously, waiting alertly for her reaction. She does not move toward me, though the fire in her eyes shows her true intolerance for me.

___Why me? _I silently question her in a look, cocking my head.

___You serve the King, _she seems to answer.

___I serve him, _I agree aloud, sounding terribly quiet. She starts before relaxing slightly, eyes narrowed.

___You serve a murderer. An oath-breaker, _she retorts.

___I serve him because of bonds, not loyalty, _I counter.

___You serve him. You serve him—the great tyrant of Alagaësia—for nothing more than bonds. You are no dragon. You are a monster—a mindless slave. _

___I am not. _

___Prove it. _

I growl in annoyance, though she glances at me, emotionless. No—___expectant_.

___I cannot, _I finally answer in defeat.

___Of course you can't. _

She thrusts me from her mind, as though throwing me out of a room, before slamming a mental door closed upon me. I wince slightly. She offers me no sympathetic glances—just another snarl.

I continue to observe her from my corner, just able to make out her bluish shape. Though I can only just see her, I cannot help admiring the richness of her blue scales. With a mental grimace, I consider how she must see me, sighing deeply. She stiffens, though I snort and roll my eyes.

___Why am I a monster to you? _I ask, curious. She ignores me. ___Will you not speak to me? _

___I won't, _she answers contradictorily. Her stern glance is enough to show she's not trying to be funny, either.

___Why? _

My question falls on deaf ears; frustration gnaws at me. With an effort, I force it down—forcing back my anger, my pain, my wondering, and just allowing myself to glare back at her with the same irritable venom.

I cannot wait until she leaves, I decide, for no matter how beautiful in appearance she may or may not be, she certainly hates me.

Though I am not so certain I hate her.

0

___'You judge me so quickly._

___I judge you for what you are.'_

******Thorn**

I stare at her through hooded eyes, hers bright and fierce as always.

An expansive yawn breaks forth from my jaws, though I don't bother suppress it. Not even from boredom but fatigue—I long to just close my eyes and drift, though I know the moment I do she'll do ___something. _And, though I know it's rather pathetic, I fear whatever it is. Being chained rather tightly to the wall—head and wings included—does have its disadvantages, particularly against an unhindered, angry dragoness.

___Want to answer any of my questions? _I ask, not expecting a response. She doesn't disappoint—her flat stare is unmoved. ___I figured as much, _I mutter.

Despite my seemingly amused countenance, confusion wells up inside me as I try to make sense of the situation. So the King has placed her and myself in the same cell, for an unknown period of time, for unknown purposes, with only myself being chained. She appears unimpeded by drugs—though magic clearly plays a role in restraining her. Aside from the slight imprints on her neck from where Shruikan had dragged her, she is unmarked. Injured—perhaps—though not physically.

It all makes so terribly little sense. Why would Galbator—

A roar bursts from my throat, startling her to her feet and myself lower to the ground in submission. The chains rattle slightly as I fight to still the tremors, teeth clenched. For several moments, we remain as that, icy pain nipping at my scales while heat burns me from within. With a grunt, the spell fades, though a light trembling racks my frame as I lower my head to my paws once more. I breathe in several deep, steadying breaths to quell the final shivers, and soon calm has returned.

To myself, anyway. The dragoness remains stock-still, standing with her wings flared as wide as the cell will allow. She stares at me, confused and angry, though I snort softly to the latter. Tilting her head to one side, she glances at me up and down before abruptly snapping her wings shut. Wordlessly, she seats herself as well, and I sigh wearily in response.

___What, did you think I would attack? _I offer with a bitter laugh. Her eyes narrow, not amused, though a sour smile curls my lips. ___I cannot, O Silent Dragoness, _I respond, almost mockingly. She growls low, a threatening notion.

___Don't tempt me, _it seems to say.

I roll my eyes despite myself. ___Do you have a voice? _I taunt.

She glares.

___No? A shame. They're very interesting things—helping you convey feelings and instructions and whatnot. A shame you do not have one. Ah well. I suppose we may not all have voices with which to speak._

Throughout my rambling—meant to prompt her to speak—she remains queerly silent, vexing me. ___You really won't speak to me, will you? _

To my surprise, she offers a slight shake of her head, tail flicking back and forth lightly. Her back is stiff, and her wings tensed and ready to spring outward. I glance at them admiringly, though she tightens them to her sides as though to prevent my viewing from them. Between my damaged sight and the darkness of the dungeon, she successfully ruins my observing of her wings.

___You judge me so quickly, _I remark.

___I judge you for what you are. _

The response startles me briefly, though I narrow my eyes after a moment. ___What am I, then? _

___A monster. A high servant of the tyrant. A murderer. An oath-breaker. A traitor. _

___I am none, _I deny, fervent now. She glares at me apprehensively, unconvinced. ___What monstrous acts have I committed? How do I serve the King but as a slave? Who have I murdered? What oaths have I broken? Who have I betrayed? _

The questions pour out of me, a sudden torrent of emotion I cannot contain. My voice rises with each word, a shout by the end. I do not bother hide my outrage—my breath comes suddenly quick and deep.

Frustration explodes within me when she regards me with nothing more than a narrowed glance. ___Why! _I roar. ___Why won't you answer me? _

___You know the answers, liar. _

My angry resolve disintegrates as suddenly as a flame doused in a river. I lower my head to my paws once more, my stare suddenly listless. The change in my demeanor seems to surprise her—I don't care enough to offer explanations she won't respond to.

Quiet words, growing in strength with each line, echo in my head, once lost in a memory.

___I bind myself, Thorn, Dragon of Murtagh, to you, King Galbatorix, Ruler of Alagaësia, and you, Shruikan, Dragon of King Galbatorix. I will not disobey your words—I will not disobey your laws. I will not attempt to leave, nor will I attempt to plot treachery. I will not fraternize with the enemy outside our borders, unless you order it so. I will not speak unkindly of you to others, and I will not commit treason against you. I will kill as you command me, and torture as you command me also. I will accept that which you give me without questioning, and I will never turn against you. _

___I am yours—to be used at your disposal. If I prove myself disloyal, I will willingly submit to the punishment you deem as necessary—I will not defy your order of my execution, either. I will follow you as loyally and devotedly as your most dutiful servants and more, and I will belong to you. I belong to none other than you, King Galbatorix and Black Dragon Shruikan. Should you die, should I hurt too, and should I die, should the blame be mine alone. I will not mourn over my own pains, nor will I beg for better things. I will accept what you give me without complaint. _

___I, Raudr Baen, am yours. _

A soft cry of pain escapes me as the mentioning of ___his _name brings up scorching heat within me. My eyes burn hotly, though I do not close them to soothe them. I do not allow the trembles to control me, nor the heat to overpower me. Instead, I just lie on the ground, enduring the pain, waiting only for it to end. Across from me—with an expression torn between curious, confused, and disdainful—stands the dragoness.

___I am not a liar, _I protest tonelessly.

Looking back upon the oath—the lengthy spell I could never have hoped understand at the time—I notice with surprising clarity how the King mapped out my entire life in those words. He bound me—completely and utterly—to himself, sealing the deal with my true name. ___Red Sorrow, _I think with some amusement, though mostly dismay.

___I am a monster. _There is no spite, no anger, no sadness at such biting realization. ___I am a high servant of the tyrant-King. I am a murderer—an oath-breaker. _

___But I am not a traitor. _

So emboldened by my words I am that I rise to full height, ignoring the chains' protests, and glance firmly at the dragoness across from me. ___Never call me that, _I order. ___Never. You have no idea what lengths I have been forced to never betray my King. None whatsoever. _

And slowly, without once breaking the stare we're locked in, I lower myself to the floor.

I close my eyes, ignoring her—allowing myself to drift, to dream.

* * *

___I see myself—only younger—as I approach the King, head bowed, wings folded. Beside me stands a young man—dark brown hair almost black—radiating waves of anxiety. I attempt to calm him, though he ignores me, staring ahead lifelessly as though made of stone. I flinch as a heavy snout shoves me forward roughly, to sprawl at the King's feet. I glance up at him before lowering my gaze submissively. _

___Rising to my feet, I yelp and jump back when a set of ivory teeth snaps dangerously near me. I flee toward the young man, though he glares down at me, radiating sudden animosity that startles me back. At last, I come to rest beside the King's feet, cowering before the large black dragon. Instead of welcoming, the King sneers down at me, kicking me towards the great behemoth. 'Fend for yourself, hatchling,' he commands emotionlessly. _

___I stare, wide-eyed and terrified, at the enormous dragon towering above me, closing my eyes and ducking my head to avoid the blow I know is sure to come. A snort of hot breath washes over me and I shiver; my wings instinctively tuck tighter against my sides. 'Don't hurt me,' a part of me pleads, though the other terribly silent half is indifferent. _

___With a squeal of pain, I leap back, though the dragon has not moved. Deep sadness resides in his eyes as he stares down at me, mingled in a hint of guilt. I turn away from such powerful, helpless emotions, only to confront the hate and sorrow radiating from the man. Again, I seek the King's protection, though he is the worst—_******amused**___._

_'__You will learn,' he says, as though teaching me a new skill. 'Someday.' _

_'__What are you trying to teach me?' I ask, retreating from the now-snarling black dragon. I stumble back over heavy iron, entangling myself in a set of thick chains. I scrabble helplessly amidst them, unable to free myself. 'My King!' I plead. He laughs at my predicament, snapping his fingers. _

___To my horror, the young man—whom I once believed my friend—moves to my side, chuckling coldly as he locks the chains into place. He tightens the ones on my wings almost unbearably—I thrash weakly in protest. 'Let me go, let me go!' the cry is flung out to all. The King laughs more heartily, and the young man's work becomes more clipped. A regretful glance from the black dragon offers no reprieve—I wince as the final chains click into place. _

___Leaping upright, I scramble away from this human who I no longer know—who no longer knows me. A lick of fire brands my face and I screech, recoiling. _

_'__Let me go!' I shout as the young man bends to lift me, chains and all. This time I can clearly see a whip as it slices through the air, landing like a hot knife upon my face. I bury my head desperately in the chains, hoping to hide myself, to flee. _

___Pain. Unbearable, unending _******agony **___scorches through me. Tendons snap, flesh rips, bones crack. My lungs nearly explode, my mind falling into a sea of sharp red. It seems the blinding color is the only one there—red—a scarlet that can only describe blood, describe pain. I writhe, though this only worsens my hurt, my bones grinding and rubbing against each other as though in a bag shaken anew. _

_'__Let me go!' _

___Let me go! _

___LET ME GO! _

I bolt upright in a cold sweat, trembling. ___Let me go, _I breathe.

* * *

******Saphira **

He sleeps.

I raise and lower my head alternately, as though trying to be certain he is truly asleep or merely faking it. The way his chest swells and falls with each steady breath seems ample proof, though I do not lower my own stance. Instead, I shuffle to the left, as though to take a step closer, before hesitating. With a decisive shake of my head, I sit, wings folded to my sides.

He doesn't react when I growl at him. Snapping my jaws lightly, I watch in confused silence as he continues to rest, heedless of my taunts. ___You're not asleep, _I protest, in a last effort to awaken him.

He seems to sigh in his sleep, though I cannot be certain.

With a sigh, I slowly allow myself to relax. He is no threat, I have decided, at least not now. How long he will remain such is impossible to know, though my only indication would be when the chains are removed from him. I examine the deep gouge marks cut into his skin by the cold metal, blood dripping down from them sluggishly. Satisfaction at the sharp slice in his neck washes over me, though the approval does not reach my eyes. While it is necessary that I show him I am intolerable to him—that I will not even entertain the idea of his presence as companionable—guilt at having inflicted even more pain upon him from what he's already suffered leaves me displeased.

His brow furrows slightly and he shifts, though with the slow movements of being caught in a dream. He flinches, shuffling again. I watch as he tosses and turns fractionally, all the while wondering what is plaguing his dreams.

But, I remind myself, I will not fall for any of this. His questioning, I know, would only bring trouble on us both for me to answer. Even those which I have answered I berate myself for, though I cannot take back my words. I resolve myself that once he awakens, I'll ignore him. If he asks, I'll ignore that as well.

This will be a very long week.

He shifts, wings ruffling in their bonds and head tossing slightly from side to side as though shaking it. A low moan escapes him, and he curls closer, as though trying to stave off some unknown pain. I instinctively draw closer, curious, before pausing and reminding myself not to bother.

___Let me go! _he roars, eyes flaring open. I shift back in surprise, his sudden awakening startling me.

___Let me go? _I wonder silently. The chains rattle around him as he shivers, panting deeply. A short string of words escapes him on a breath, though I can only just catch them. He glances listlessly down at his feet, not elaborating on their meaning.

Silence reigns between us.

The troubled expression on his face draws me nearer, though he glances up at me suddenly, the saddest look I can ever recall glinting on his face. And then it hardens, and he growls at me. I growl slightly in turn, though the deep hatred and sorrow in his eyes soon silences me. With a ruffle of my wings, I turn and move to the farthest corner of the cell, taking slow steps. Each once is accentuated with a growl from Thorn, forming a continuous rumble.

I coolly sit on the ground, glaring at him. He glares back.

___Angry, now? _I ask silently. He doesn't move, as the question was neither voiced nor directed at him. Such troubling emotions play out on his expression that I cannot help but feel a twinge of guilt for mocking him in his misery. I cock my head at him slightly, waiting.

Who is this dragon? Truly? For the monster in him is so clear, yet the hatchling is there as well. He is so split, though, that I dare not trust the hatchling. Sparing a meaningful glance at his face, I can see most clearly in his eyes anguish—so deep I wish only to move to comfort him. But I force my own face to remain stoic, my ground to be stood as uncaring.

With only a soft hiss, he draws back to his chains, as though to leave my sight. Shamed, he looks away, and I grant him the small wish that is to suffer in silence. I move away so that I am not facing him so directly, but not so that I am completely vulnerable before him. He sighs quietly, the sound a rasp in his throat, before wearily resting against the wall, head pressed against the cold stone miserably and eyes closed.

I do not extend a comforting tendril of thought, a question to distract or an answer to humor him. Instead, I close my eyes as well.

* * *

___A game of stones lies before me. _

___Three black, three gold, three green, and three red are spread out on the marble floor, each one waiting to be taken. I glance at the rocks in wonderment before decidedly reaching over and selecting the first rock in the grouping. _

___Heartbreak. Deep, true, and cold as a stone, it radiates so strongly I find myself all but weeping as I stare out at the lifeless world. My heart sinks in my chest, and a deep hurt wells up within me. Delicately I reach forward, unable to release the stone. _

___So I grab the next. _

___Callousness. The earlier pain is discarded, replaced by an indefinable emotion. It still thrums terribly, though in the background, as though this new emotion is just a thin cloak to be draped over the former. The complete disregard for the pain I have inflicted, of the torment I have brought on, nearly causes me guilt, though I remind myself that what I have done is not wrong, but rather what must be done. _

___I reach over and pick up the third and final black stone. _

___Regret. By far the strongest emotion, it overpowers the first two, and a wave of anguish quickly follows. Such remorse over actions, such guilt, it paralyzes me. Tears well up in my eyes and I roar out in sorrow, the stones slipping from my claw. _

___The black stones slid into place, filling an invisible row on an unwritten game. I stare down at them, etched in sleek white letters 'Heartbreak', 'Callousness', and 'Regret.'_

___I force myself to reach to the next; the first gold. _

___Sorrow. An overpowering sadness sweeps through me, the tears flowing more freely down my cheeks. Such a demeaning, horrible gesture, yet so true amidst the unstoppable torrent. I wish to end it—to do something—_******anything**___—to end it. Death, I know, is far kinder than this—I wish desperately that it would come upon me and _******end it**___. _

___I snatch up the next stone quickly. _

___Acceptance. The calming emotion seems to soothe my pain, numbing it. I drift between the sorrow and acceptance, though ultimately, acceptance prevails. I know I must continue—no matter how hard. _

___And so I reach forward and grasp the last gold stone. _

___Satisfaction. This one, like the acceptance, is not a complete erasing of the first—rather the realization that this is right. That what has happened had to happen, and thus cannot be taken as wrong. And that what I have done was good—and has provided good. _

___I slowly drop the stones, which roll into the 'row' just behind the black. 'Sorrow', 'Acceptance', and 'Satisfaction' play in gentle white letters on their surfaces. _

___Dreading what I will find yet driven on by morbid curiosity, I tentatively grasp the first green stone. _

___Fear. Though it is not nearly as powerful as though other emotions, it just as chilling in its simplicity. It clouds my senses—worsens my judgment. Everywhere there is darkness, and my soul desire becomes to _******escape.**___ I clumsily grasp the next. _

___Confusion. My brow furrows, and my claw tightens around the stones. What is this—this strange feeling? A fear without a fault—a judgment without a thing to be judged. I know whether not to be surprised or worried, though I reach forward anyway and grab the last. _

___Loneliness. Like a metronome, it thrums through me, striking my very core with its saddened beats. I search in vain around me, hoping for someone to prove me wrong and dispel this loneliness. But there is only loneliness, and the stones slip from my claws dully. _

___They slid into place behind the gold, behind the black. 'Fear', 'Confusion', and 'Loneliness' carve themselves in the rocks' surfaces. _

___I stare for several long, quiet moments at the marked stones before allowing my gaze to stray to the final group. _

___The red. _

___My claw closes gently around the first stone. _

___Hurt. It burns through me, scorching my soul from the inside out. I roar mutely in agony, though I cannot escape it. Everywhere, there is the pain—the hurt, the suffering. Worse, there is nothing I can do to stop it. So I sit and endure, pretending not to notice, pretending not to care, while hurting all along. _

___Want. A strong desire for companionship, for trust, for many things floods through me. The greatest of wants is for a being—though who, I cannot tell. I try and try to reach forward, to seize that which I wish, yet it always evades my grasp. _

___Soft whiteness caresses me, and through it I feel someone's trust. I feel the need to go on—the need to continue despite all. For somewhere, I know without knowing, there exists it— _

___-Hope. _

0

"I am the King. I can do anything I wish with my captives."

******Thorn**

I wake groggy, shaking my head blearily as a guard shuffles by the cell door. Alert as ever, the dragoness already stares down at the door with a glare that I am certain could cow anyone, perhaps even the King himself. She stands hardly a foot from the door, a continuous growl rumbling in her throat. I resist a chuckle, though a throaty-cough betrays me. She spares me a brief, loathing glance before glaring back at the door.

I cock my head at her in bemusement as she sits there, cat-like, her tail partially curled around her and her wings angled for easy opening. Her eyes are bright—though I can tell by the faint dustings over her that she has rested at least somewhat. I yawn loudly, drawing her attention once more just as a guard hastily throws open the door. A fat doe is tossed inside, landing solidly on the ground. Judging by the healthy coloring of its coat that I can glean from the light pouring from the doorway, it appears a fresh kill, its blood still ruby. I glance suspiciously at the guards, though the door closes with a loud ___clang._

So ___this _is the game the King wishes to play.

The dragoness growls indignantly at the doorway, slamming her head against the door. With a thunderous report, the metal vibrates in place, though otherwise it gives no sign of abuse. I wince very slightly; otherwise my gaze is unchanging as I stare at the meat just in my reach. Snarling in outrage, the dragoness turns from the door, whacking the metal beside it with her tail. She glares at me first, then down at the meat. Slowly, she moves toward it, watching me all the while as I make no move to claim it. Finally, she stands overtop it, staring at me with an unreadable expression.

She crouches to sniff at the meat, our gazes locked.

With careful movements, she opens her jaw and grasps the deer, raising her head slowly. Drops of blood slip from the doe's smooth coat, though otherwise there is almost no indication it was once alive. My stomach rumbles hungrily as I stare at her. With a questing growl, I silently ask, ___Well? What're you waiting for? _

I stagger back in surprise when she suddenly flings the doe to my feet, where it lands with a dull ___thud. _I glance at her, not sparing the deer a moment. Instead of attacking—as I half-expect—she calmly returns to her corner, sitting down with a quiet grunt. I wait for several moments longer before daring break our stare.

The deer is plump, belly sticking out healthily. No remarkable injuries score it—a scratch here and there, but otherwise unmarked. Odd, I muse, as most of my meals are quite bloodied and torn.

A new problem suddenly occurs to me as I bend to sniff at it. The chains muzzling my snout prevent me from opening my jaw wider than a hand's breadth, no where near enough to even nibble at the deer's flesh. Always the guards would come in and free me of the chains found there, knowing I would be severely punished if I ever dared take advantage of such a thing.

A growl rumbles in my chest, vexed.

I glance over at the dragoness, who observes me with a calm expression. ___Well? What're you waiting for? _she seems to mock me with that look. I glare in response, glancing back down at the deer.

My throat clenches, so very near to food yet impossibly bound away. Cruelly my scales disguise my true emaciation, and so only I and the King know the depth of my hunger.

And he never gives me enough to sate it.

Nudging the deer forward with my snout, I slowly make my way toward her. She stiffens, though otherwise doesn't move. After several agonizingly slow moments, I manage to catch the nape of the deer's neck in my jaws, tasting only fur and skin. With a cool glance at the dragoness, I swing my head back slightly and throw the deer forward.

It lands limply at her feet.

With a gruff snort, I nod my head to her, retreating. Fur clings to my teeth uncomfortably, even bits of flesh taunting me, though it brings only more hunger. I groan loudly in exasperation, shooting a murderous look at the guards.

She gives me a disapproving glance before returning to the deer. Sniffing it again, she wordlessly places a paw upon its stomach and leans down to take a slight nip of it. She slowly chews the meat, testing it. Flicking her forked-tongue out, she bows her head and snatches the deer's carcass up in a single bite, loud crunches erupting from inside her jaws before she swallows.

She stretches, shaking her wings to clear some of the grime that has collected there as I so long to do with my own. As though to torment me further, she paces the length of the cell, to which I can do nothing but stare enviously. Catching my glance, she pauses.

___What are you looking at? _her pointed glance seems to say.

___You take everything for granted, _I reply.

Her brow furrows and I realize I have spoken aloud. I shrug a shoulder and she lets it go. She resumes pacing to my dismay, her movements quiet and eased. When she swings her head lightly to glance at me, I occupy myself with the chains near my feet, tilting my head convincingly and nudging at them. She seems to see through my thin display, though she—as usual—doesn't comment. I sigh and she looks away again with a quiet growl.

I lift my gaze to stare at her, brow furrowing slightly. She doesn't turn or offer an explanation, though I growl back in retort. When she keeps pacing—pointedly ignoring me—I growl louder, snapping my teeth as much as the chains will allow.

Her eyes flick toward me, though she quickly refocuses her gaze ahead.

___So now you won't look at me? _I ask.

Her step hesitates, though she continues without answer.

___You can ignore me all you want. _

She doesn't give any hint that she's even heard me.

___Would you answer me any questions? _I ponder, almost wistfully.

___No. _

___You answered one. _

She growls low, as though to intimidate me, and abruptly I find that her pacing has suddenly shifted so that she stands before me. The closeness allows me a brief chance to assess her, though with the darkness and my ineffective draconic sight, I can only make her out for shapes and a strange blue tinge. Her narrowed eyes appear particularly menacing from such close proximity, though I do not cower away.

___Would you answer another?_ My tone is hopeful.__

___No. _Hers—cold.

___Why not? _

A growl escapes her and she appears tempted to deal a good slash or whack to my side.

___All right, _I concede, ___but please, answer me just one more. _

___No. _

She turns away suddenly, stalking back to the edges of 'her half' of the cell. I lunge forward daringly, thrusting my wings as far as they can possible go, straining against the chains. Mine skim hers, though it is enough. The weight of the chains topples us both, the balance of my wings tipped so drastically I am jerked first forward then back from the force. She scrabbles in silence at the floor, claws scuffling as I hastily climb to my own feet.

___What is your name? _I fling the thought at her, throwing as much force as I can behind my words. She glances away further, ignoring my question, and lurches to her feet.

___What is your name? _I repeat, watching her retreat. She doesn't spare me a glance, not the slightest motion that she cares. ___You know mine—why can't I know yours? What harm can be done in a name? _

She seats herself after circling once, wings folded neatly at her sides. ___Thorn. What a fine name you bear. _Spiteful. My lip curls back in a snarl, though inwardly an odd pleasure at the sound of my name from her flows through me. ___What of my name—I just want to know yours. _

She stares coolly at me, unresponsive. Just as I again quest out to ask, she asks, ___Why? _

It is the first question she has posed for me, and to it I am left grasping for words. She doesn't bother wait for my answer as time passes, and eventually she resigns to rest her head on her paws and sleep. I still rack my mind in frustration for an answer, though it seems none is there. I look up at her, watching her rise and fall gently with each breath, her teeth locked and her brow furrowed. She paws slightly at the ground, her wings shifting restlessly.

___I don't know, _I mutter to her silence, ___Cannot I just ask? _

* * *

******Shruikan **

___What do you hope to gain of this? _I demand as I enter the throne room once more. Sitting nonchalantly in his throne, Galbatorix regards me with nothing more than a bored look before breaking out in a sadistic smile.

"I would've thought you'd be happier I'm at least giving them some time to acquaint themselves with each other," he answers. The smile doesn't leave his face and I growl.

___You're toying with them now? _

There is no threat large enough to temper my outrage at such a thing, and I find my wits to not try and pin him to the floor barely a moment before I crouch.

"I am not toying with them." Polite, as always, yet somehow insulting. My eyes narrow fractionally. "I am merely setting them up for the inevitable. Unless you would wish me to just force him upon her tonight, then? I'll have word sent to the guard straightaway, if that is the case. She may submit willingly to him, or she may submit unwillingly. There is no middle ground for this, Shruikan, and I will not debate upon it. It has been decided, and I reasoned you would be happier I were giving her and opportunity to submit willingly. But if you insist, it can be arranged otherwise." He grins, an unusually sinister one for his usual cordiality.

___Enough! _I bellow, glaring at him. My wings strain against their invisible bonds to no avail, though a feral snarl breaks my jaws. ___You treat them like dogs—chaining one and leaving the other to do with the first as it pleases. _

"She can't harm him," dismisses Galbatorix, "without harming herself."

___You're _******forcing **___them into this and you _******still**___ argue that you're not? _I fume.

"Well, Shruikan, I can honestly say I'm surprised at your jealousy. I would've thought you'd be happy for the poor, lonely little hatchling—instead you think I am cruel to be doing this."

___But you are! _

"Enough. I will not argue with you on this—as I have already said." He waves a hand dismissively. "Is that all you have come for? To argue about the inconveniences of the inevitable? How noble of you." I simmer at how he insults and compliments myself at once. "You really should stick to points of actual debate, Shruikan, if you wish to gain anything from speaking."

___You can't do this. You can't force them together like this. _

"I am the King. I can do anything I wish with my captives." The first edge of true malice enters his voice, his politeness suddenly turning cold. "That includes you, and if you were wise, you would not tempt me. As it is, I am sourly tempted to just have ___you _force yourself upon the female and have it done with."

___How dare you threaten me! _I roar. His authority suddenly becomes painfully clear as a cool smile crosses his face. I hiss loudly as twin bolts of electricity strike the largest bones in my wings, leaving them limp at my sides.

"I can threaten you all I want, dear Shruikan," he informs sweetly. "I hold power. You do not. And you'd do best to remember that."

I step forward threateningly. He raises an eyebrow deferentially, though a moment later something sharp pierces my scales. I screech, throwing my head back and clawing at the ground in agony. The knife in my heart burns, burns so terribly I cannot bear it. ___Stop! _I howl.

The sensation retreats, and I jerk my head downward, certain there is a sword run through my chest, that my very blood must now be pooling upon the stone floor.

There is nothing.

"The psyche is a powerful thing," comments Galbatorix offhandedly. "Tampering with it may cause hallucinations, phantom pains, or even insanity."

___So now you're messing with my mind? _I seethe, internally terrified at such a prospect. Never before has he so absolutely convinced me something without the assistance of magic—never.

"That was a warning. The next will not be," he answers. Calmness, as though informing me of a nice pleasure he experienced, resonates through his voice.

___You'd drive me to insanity just for the sake of punishment? _I ask, trying to sound frightening rather than frightened.

"Why not? You're no longer of true use to me, other than practicality in battle. And once we destroy those poor little Varden you will be of no use to me. I have what I need—what more could you provide? Companionship?" I need not hear it to feel the mocking in his voice. "Ah, you overestimate your worth, Shruikan. I need your strength, and since I have that already, I need you not at all. Your sanity is not something that must be preserved for myself to control you. Remember that."

I resist the sudden urge to apologize, to assure that I meant nothing of my outburst and I would not let it happen again. Yet I cannot force the words from my mouth.

I glance up, meeting his untroubled gaze, and wonder how it is possible that I must bow to he and not he to me. ___I will, _I answer simply, turning to leave.

"Did I dismiss you?" his voice calls, like a serpent's in the dark. I slowly turn back to face him. "No? I didn't think so." I glower, forcing myself to be silent. "You see," he continues, folding his hands on the left arm of the throne, "I have recently acquired an unusual possession. And though I considered otherwise, I decided it would be best if ___you _were the one to dispose of it."

I blanch. ___What do you mean? _

"Shruikan, are you really that dull? Cannot you see what I'm getting at?" he purrs. "No? Well, you never were the brightest. The Golden Dragon's Eldunarí—___Glaedr's_ Eldunarí."

___You want me to… dispose of him? _

"Of course. Sap his strength dry and then leave him with the others. Oh, and don't forget; ___torture him. Make him scream for mercy for ever having dared defy me. However you do it, make him in absolute agony before you destroy him. _And once you have finished, report back to me. Failure ___will_ result in grave consequences for yourself." He smiles pleasantly at me, unperturbed. "I expect you will not fail, correct?"

___Correct, _I agree meekly. I balk from the thought of torturing, even more so when Galbatorix ___specifically _says that I must make him scream and be in agony.

For words of the ancient language cannot be defied.

___When must I do it? _I dread it as much as though I were to go to a torture session myself.

"Now would be a most excellent time." As though coalesced from thin air, the gold Eldunarí suddenly appears in Galbatorix's hands. If I had blinked, I would've missed how he struck the stone throne beneath him, withdrawing from the invisible vault the stone. "Remember, Shruikan. ___Do not fail me._"

I cringe to the ancient language, though he seems not to notice. I slowly move closer, extending my neck and taking the Eldunarí in my jaws when he proffers it.

I close my eyes briefly as I turn to shut out the thought of what I am about to do before breathing deeply and placing the stone on the ground before me.

With a heavy breath, I place my paw atop the stone, and enter the Golden Dragon.

* * *

******Saphira **

I shuffle in my sleep as something whines, opening my eyes to slits. Across from me, not a dozen yards away, Thorn scrabbles lightly at the floor, head burrowing deep into the chains locked around his forepaws. He shivers convulsively, though somehow the tremors do not reach the chains enough to rattle them. I watch as he moans, turning his head to the side, breathing deeply. A raggedy growl escapes him, cut purposefully short as several others follow.

Sobbing, I realize.

Tentatively, I quest my mind towards him, reversing the unspoken standard of him questing toward me. I am met by a wall of sorrow, a deep pain slicing down my heart and making my thoughts seeming painful to even think. Overriding it all is terrible longing, sadness so deep I can hardly bear to draw back. My breath is shaky when I withdraw, and my eyes watery from the shared pain.

He shifts restlessly, his sobs never once relenting. They become more grating, more desperate, and I close my eyes to try and ignore it. I focus on questing toward Eragon as I have not attempted in several hours, only to see again the futility of it. I open my eyes after several long moments, my gaze shifting back to Thorn.

He stares at me, breathing in rough pants, though seemingly unhindered by such. Even though there is no emotion to his expression, the depth of sorrow and longing in his eyes shows clearly.

___He doesn't let you see him, does he? _

We both know who I speak of.

He shakes his head.

___Ever? _

He shakes his head again, solemn.

Silence.

___Why? _

His lip curls downward, his brow furrows, and confusion reflects in his eyes. Without speaking, the message is clear: ___I don't know._

I shuffle awkwardly before his distraught gaze and he seems to notice; he turns his head away suddenly, not acknowledging me otherwise. I cannot ignore the scars—tinged with blue—that glow before me, marring his hide dozens of times over. His wings, I seem to see for the first time pinioned to his side invoke a sudden guilt in me. Here he is, trapped to roam only a small, cramped segment of the cell, battered, broken, miserable. Yet I have the majority of the cell to myself, and no chains weigh me down. No cuts and bruises such as his score myself; no restrictions bind me from moving about freely.

He fixes me with a lifeless stare.

___You have no idea what I've gone through, _he murmurs, as though to himself. ___You may guess all you want, but you'll never know. _I stare back at him, unable to answer or dare speak. ___You may think I am strong to have endured—but I am not. _Here he moves to the farthest reaches of the chains, curling up in the corner. ___I am weak. I am disposable. I am worthless. I should be cursed. I should be scolded and jeered at and shouted at. I should be ignored—I should be here. _

___I should be dead._

Before I can respond to that, he resolutely shuts me out of his mind, the first time he has done so to me rather than myself to him. I glance at him as he slips back into a fitful sleep, not thinking of him as sulky or seeking pity. In our brief commiseration from his dreams, I could see the truth in those words. And the loathing that it is so.

___Thorn, _I quest, though he ignores me. ___Thorn, answer me something. _

___No. _

And I realize that amidst the callousness of his tone, there is mocking from my earlier refusals to his questions. ___Please. _

He cracks open an eye to regard me with the same boredom of a cat awakened from an enjoyable nap. ___No, _he repeats, closing it again.

___Why doesn't he try to see you? _I ask, plunging on despite his refusals.

He remains silent for so long I nearly give up on receiving an answer, turning to retreat when suddenly: ___He cannot, just as I cannot see him. _

I turn in surprise to look back at him, though his eyes are still closed, and a peaceful rest seems to claim him. I stare at him for several moments longer before retreating to the opposite end of the cell once more.

With nothing better to do, I close my eyes and let reality drift away, inviting in calm darkness.

0

___'Calmness is an easy disguise for anxiety.'_

******Shruikan**

I was certain that I would come to regret my obligation the moment I encountered the Golden Dragon's presence.

___You come at last, _sighs a deep voice. There is no resentment, no bitterness to my surprise. I bow my head, glancing across the black expanse to the golden dragon before me. Our consciousnesses shape our beings here—no maladies of the flesh can harm either of us in this small, quiet world. Darkness surrounds us, though it is not threatening or discouraging, but rather natural and acceptable.

Neutral.

___I have come, _I answer, stepping forward in my conjured self. He sighs again, more wearily, glancing off to some distant thing neither of us can truly see. I follow his gaze momentarily before growling at him. ___What are you looking at? _

___Just the past, _he answers mournfully, shaking his head. ___And my future, _he adds with a rather wry glance at myself. I drop my growl in pitch, though I remain unpleased with the task before me.

___How are you so calm about this? _I demand.

___Calmness is an easy disguise for anxiety. _Cryptic, yet clear. My growl quiets slightly to his words, and a grim smile crosses his face.

___You've come to kill me—I know. _

___I cannot kill you, _I rumble.

___Ah, but you can—at least of spirit. _

He shrugs a shoulder, infuriatingly unworried. ___Could not you be the least bit concerned as to why I am here? _Snappish, though I don't bother hide my growing temper.

___I could, but it would be futile, _he answers. He ghosts over to my side, steps silent and light. ___I'm not stupid, Shruikan. I know what you've come here to do. I know that you won't leave until you've achieved it. _He spreads his wings wide, almost tauntingly, though the grimness in his expression doesn't fade. ___So, I'm ready. _

___You won't fight me? _I ask, incredulous. He barks a laugh.

___Fight you? Of course. But first you must strike at me. _He shakes his wings as though this is obvious. I steady myself, finding the cool, invisible ground beneath me and sinking my claws into it. Crouching, he mirrors my movements, our lips curling back in twin snarls. ___Come, Shruikan. Come and fight me, _he commands.

I growl lower, adding a hiss, before doing just that.

At first contact, our minds become a single entity, thinking and breathing as one. I can feel his emotions and memories as my own, his hurts and troubles as clearly as though they were mine. I cannot express what the bizarre feeling truly was—to feel things that weren't supposed to be mine, and knowing that things never meant to be felt by another were being shared with this dragon before me.

His jaws locked around my head, shaking me vigorously, before thrusting me off to one side.

The power behind such a blow is enormous, though I feel strangely unhindered by it. I instead leap to my feet, my crouch deepening as we circle wolfishly. With a roar, I lunge at him, latching onto his neck. We tumble to the ground, myself barely managing to keep from being crushed beneath him. Yet I truly need not fear, for it is somewhat impossible to die in this strange world.

I doggedly hold onto his neck, both of us thrashing against each other, scoring dozens of marks upon one another. I wince as his razor-sharp claws slice across my left eye, blinding me there. Through blurred vision, I manage to catch his right leg, jerking and tearing as ferociously as I dare. He kicks loose of me, throwing us both back against the ground.

___You fight well, _he compliments gravelly.

My claws rake down his sides, twin gashes sprouting there. He roars, though it is defiant, not pained. To my astonishment, he lurches upright, digging my claws in deeper, a satisfied hiss escaping him. ___What're you doing? _I ask, ripping my claws from his flesh. He laughs morbidly.

___The less I deny, the faster the inevitable will come. _

I whack him once—brutally—with my tail, spearing and cutting his face at the same time. He screeches, unable to withhold his agony, yet he does not collapse. Instead he drives himself forward, using his head like a battering ram and plowing over me. His size, though equal to mine in this strange world, is daunting enough, and we crash into the unseen ground. I struggle for several long moments before pain erupts from my left leg. I try to move away, to move ___him _away, but he overpowers me with our awkward positions and drives his teeth deep into my flesh.

I close my eyes just a moment before a powerful jerk tears muscle, tissue, and even bone apart. An almighty scream escapes me—a hideous sound for a dragon—though he unrelentingly bears down on me, clawing and digging his teeth into any flesh he can find. I try to ignore the blinding pain to retaliate, though the bleeding stub of my leg burns and throbs and aches all at once, paralyzing me. ___Stop! _I find myself pleading involuntarily. He looks down at me with a disapproving glance.

___I said I would fight you—fight back! _he commands.

Hidden strength seems to well up within me, though I am not sure whether it is my physical or mental strength. Either way, I find myself glaring back as he glares down at me, and with a kick I topple him from his perch atop me. He snarls back, truly my opponent, yet somehow he also encourages me to come—to attack. ___Fight back, _his words echo in my head.

I feint a lunge to the left and he moves to dodge, placing himself directly in my true course of attack. We tumble to the ground in a flurry of claws, teeth, and blood, the red droplets spraying us both as we writhe beneath each other. Slowly, very slowly, I can sense myself gaining power, and him losing it.

_'__Make him scream for mercy for ever having defied me.' _

I latch—a murderous look in my eyes—onto his very skull, my teeth grating against the bone there with eerie similarity to metal on metal. A thunderous roar escapes him as my teeth apply greater pressure there, blood seeping from the sides of his head. ___Will you ever surrender? _I taunt in a voice that is not my own. ___Will you? _

___I will never give in to you, _he growls, and again, he answers not me but the demonic being that has possessed my voice. A flash of recognition glints in his eyes, though my vision pours over in red, allowing me an all too clear viewing of my bloodied prey.

I have driven him to the ground, where I press him deeper and deeper, teeth bearing down upon his very skull, blood that is not my own trickling into my mouth. A wave of bloodlust overcomes me and I lash out, drawing a deep, gruesome slash upon his neck. Combined with the crushing strength of my grasp on his head, he roars and claws at me futilely.

But no, he cannot reach me—I allow a sadistic smile to grace my lips. ___Beg for mercy, _I sneer. ___Beg, you foolish dragon! _I press harder, a bloodcurdling scream escaping the dragon beneath me as I crack his skull. Though not fatally, the wound impends him severely as his struggles fade, his form falling to the ground limply. ___BEG! _

The roar escapes me and I press down on him—never once releasing his head—and jerk my head brutally around. The result is devastating; a large gash opens up on the side of his head, spilling blood onto my onyx scales. And yet, stubbornly—___foolishly_—he remains silent but for his cries of agony. I release his head suddenly to swipe my claws over his face, all but gouging out his eyes. Blinded, bleeding, and broken, he still growls at me defiantly, red staining his face.

___I will never beg to you, _he says, and I can feel the weakling's effort at strength. I snarl, fall back into a crouch, and lunge again. Too weakened to dodge, he falls back as well, sending us in a confusing fray of limbs. I snarl at him, devilishly striking his face again. His lower jaw hangs awkwardly from his mouth, broken yet not completely detached. ___Beg for mercy, Glaedr, _I seethe roguishly.

___No, _he refuses, obstinate.

___The pain will end sooner, _I lie sweetly, my wings flaring out to encompass and drag his down. ___The pain will end much sooner if you just beg. _

___I will never beg! _he roars. He latches onto my neck—___how dare he, _my dark conscience sneers—and drags me down to his level.

And then he drives his claws home to my chest.

Somehow, his ancient, enormous claws manage to penetrate my impossibly strong scales, and blood sprouts from my chest like a flower in bloom. Not a cascade of ruby, but rather a steady unfurling. My pain, however, is pressed aside by the demonic being within me, and I ___laugh _at his attempt to bring me down.

___You think it would be that easy? _I roar with laughter, blood spilling over my jaws. He regards me with a cool glance, neither attacking nor retreating. ___Never! _

I ram my forehead against his, ___forcing _my way into his mind. He screeches, pressing back futilely as I sift through the memories as cruelly as I can. I snatch the worst ones and replay them again and again, his torment my pleasure. Finally, I come upon a most unpleasant one, so dark even I am mildly affected by the great sorrow within. I shake it off, however, and thrust the memory at him, greatening his suffering by taunting him for his weakness throughout.

And he begs me for mercy.

Suddenly, the demon retreats, work completed, and a horrible grief overwhelms me as I stare upon this dragon—face a bloody mess and body no better. My chest burns with pain from the blow he dealt me, and I know under any realistic circumstances I would be dead from blood loss. Yet this is no ordinary reality, and logic applies far less.

I wish to apologize but I cannot, and I have yet another duty to fulfill. As our gazes lock—his by some impossibility tear-filled—and I can almost see the acceptance he has given to his fate.

'___Make him in absolute agony before you destroy him.'_

I glance at him, though somehow the words urge me to do more. Powerless, I snag his left wing in my teeth, closing my eyes as the magic forces me to tear. He moans low in pain, yet ___still _the magic insists on ___more. _

I grasp his right wing and tear as well.

He roars.

The magic continues to press me for more, more, ___more!_

I whack my tail against his side, breaking three ribs.

He collapses to the ground, a pained groan escaping him.

I close my eyes to stave off tears as I whack him again mercilessly, driving him against the ground. Again and again, I must hit him, pound him to the ground like some draconic stoning. He offers pitiful roars, broken jaw preventing him from achieving a true cry.

The magic suddenly falls silent, its words fulfilled.

I gaze down at him, traitorous tears streaming down my cheeks at the sight. ___I'm so sorry, _I whisper, and for once I truly mean it. He smiles very slightly—grimly—and bows his head in a nod.

With a final whack, I bring my tail down upon his head and end it.

* * *

"Bravo," chimes Galbatorix as I retreat, stealing the last reserves of the Golden Dragon's strength. The Eldunarí cracks, then shatters, a thousand tiny gems landing on the floor. They glow out, becoming nothing more than dull pebbles. I feel a seeking tendril of thought reach me, allowing it to enter as he leeches my newly found strength from the Golden Dragon. "A shame I could not have been there to see it," he sighs ruefully.

I spare him a deadened look before bowing my head. ___Yes, _I agree as I must. ___A shame. _

He cocks his head at me, shaking it after a moment. "For now, you are dismissed." He waves his hand toward the door. Numbly, I retreat, the image of the bloody dragon—destroyed completely and utterly—lying on the ground as I ___beat him to death _replaying in my mind.

I close my eyes once I have left the room, allowing a quiet sob to escape me.

* * *

******Saphira **

I bolt upright suddenly, startling Thorn to consciousness as well. He looks at me peculiarly. Something is wrong, I can sense, though what—I've no clue. I rise to my feet—he mirrors my movements. Pacing restlessly, I throw my mind's borders out haphazardly, desperately questing. ___What's wrong, what's wrong? _I question to any and all. Thorn's brow furrows and he regards me with a confused look, making to take a step forward. I growl low to stop him.

___What's wrong? _I roar, the sudden certainty that something very bad is occurring driving me to the very limits of my patience. I realize with grim realization that my mind is bound from reaching past this cell, and the only one who might hear me is even more confused than I.

___Saphira, _a voice calls, sounding terribly aged.

___Glaedr? _I ask, incredulous.

___No, _responds the voice in a sorrowful moan, and in an instant I recognize Shruikan.

___What has happened? _I demand, ignoring his aching consciousness.

___I…_his words trail off, and a grotesque sight fills my vision suddenly.

___You killed him! _I roar in accusation.

___I did, _he ___sobs. Brutally. Slowly. He died in _******agony **___because of me. He _******begged me for mercy**___ before I even _******considered**___ ending his suffering._

The images flash by quickly, the entire fight seeming to take place in less than a minute. I watch, my own eyes filling with tears at the sight of my former master so broken, so ___defeated, _and still clinging to life. I break the contact suddenly, if nothing else than to escape.

Thorn glances at me, still confused as ever—if not more. ___What happened? _he asks, tentative.

I shake my head slowly, thoughtlessly sending him an image of Glaedr just moments before he 'died' again. The red dragon recoils as though struck, sending up barriers of his own to block out the sight.

Several long, silent moments pass between us as we try to reason with the horrid fate of the Golden Dragon.

___What was his name? _asks Thorn, inquisitive as ever. The sorrow in his eyes is undeniable, and I likewise cannot deny his question.

___Glaedr, _I answer softly.

He bows his head, growling quietly. ___Shruikan killed him. _

It is not a question.

I nod anyway.

___None deserve to die that way, _he whispers.

___Galba—_I stop myself as he looks at me in horror, shying away from the word. ___The tyrant-King made him, _I amend. He nods very slightly, though I can just catch his sigh of relief.

A bitter laugh escapes him suddenly. ___Just as the tyrant-King will dispose of me one day, _he muses.

I glance at him disbelievingly. He shakes his head grimly.

___What purpose do you think my presence serves him now that he has you and the green egg? And Shruikan, to boot. I am no more than the Golden Drag—Glaedr was in his eyes. _He sighs wearily. ___A dour prospect to consider, I admit. _

To that, I am silent. I struggle for words, for some denial, but the certainty in his gaze cannot be questioned. ___You won't die that way…_I protest weakly. He shakes his head.

___Won't I? I have failed to do both tasks the King gave me, and he has what he needs anyway. As far as he is concerned I have failed him miserably. _

___You won't die that way! _I roar, vehement.

He chuckles, the sound like stones grinding against one another. ___You want me dead, don't you? _

Silence.

His humoring over death suddenly turns cold, and his eyes become hard as he turns away from me. He settles upon the floor, curling up to himself, ignoring my dilemma. With a soft snore, I can tell he has fallen asleep.

I know I shouldn't ___want _him dead—the hurt look in his eyes at my silent agreement almost makes me awaken him to prove such. But I know that it is true, and I should not become attached to him. As he serves the tyrant-King, he ___has _to die, in a way.

I settle down to the ground restlessly.

Is it fair to judge him so? I wonder. To judge him for actions forced upon him, and still call him evil? ___Our actions show who we are, _reminds Glaedr from a memory. I sigh heavily, resting my head on my paws.

If only he didn't look so innocent asleep, so hurt awake. If only he could understand that we cannot interact this way—that we have to ignore one another's existences. Or, I know, we'll drag each other down, whether willingly or no.

"O Great Black Dragon," murmurs a guard from outside the cell. I raise my head slowly, just able to make out a dark shape from the pitifully small barred window in the door. "What brings you here today?" A low growl. "Ah, right then." Shuffling, hardly distinguishable, rouses Thorn from his rest as the creaking of stone moves nearby. A portal seems to open as the dim lighting from outside our shared dungeon pours in. Silhouetted against it regally stands an ominous black shape, a terribly small human form nearby. The wall closes with a muted ___bang. _

Neither Thorn nor I react to Shruikan's presence, as he similarly assesses us in silence.

___What are you doing here? _snaps Thorn suddenly.

* * *

******Thorn**

The Black Dragon's gaze—if not so terribly sad—would be bored, I'm certain, from the way he turns to glance at me. The dragoness stands in the corner, forgotten as he stalks closer, coming nearly a yard away before pausing suddenly. He glowers down at me, though the anger is deeply subdued by sadness. He retreats wordlessly, standing back by the invisible door once more.

___Well? _I dare to continue. The dragoness fixes me with an unusual look—incredulous. Shruikan growls, otherwise unresponsive. He moves toward me suddenly, stalking with strong, easy strides. I back instinctively, a low hiss seething from my throat. He does not pause, even when my wings rustle threateningly beneath their chains and my claws extend to full length. Abruptly, he cranes his neck forward and I mentally repel him back. He regards me with a look that I cannot know what it meant to say, but I know what it was meant to be. I pause, lower my aggressive stance, and wait.

He resumes reaching forward, teeth gently clasping around the rusty metal chains binding my head. Delicately, as though afraid to harm me, he moves his head back, drawing the chains back as well. Stock-still, I wait in breathless amazement as he pulls off the first length, wordlessly moving to the next. With almost cautious slowness, he continues to pull the chains away, untangling them carefully. The dragoness stares, similarly awed.

The last chains come with some difficulty as they have dug into my flesh; angry red scars mar my face where they had touched. Drawing the final length of metal away, he grasps the entire bunch of chains—intertwined at the base of my neck—and pulls upward slowly. I straighten my neck and he slips the bonds away, freeing my head for the first time in nigh on a week.

I gratefully glance up at him as he tosses the chains away, his breath rumbling from him in heated gusts. He and I stare at each other for several moments, a hint of paternal concern seeming to radiate from him, before he turns to observe the dragoness. She watches him coolly, though between them I sense the same unspoken acceptance.

Shruikan turns to leave. He suddenly bows his head as though shamed and murmurs, ___Forgive me. _He taps his bulky head against the wall, which shifts easily, and then exits without another word.

I stare at the dragoness, and it seems the same disbelieving thought churns in our minds. ___What is your name? _I ask quietly.

___Why do you want to know? _she responds just as before, though without the spite.

___I want to know. I want to think of you as something other than just a dragoness. _

___You shouldn't, _she answers, turning her head away.

___Please, _I beg.

She looks at me quizzically, cocking her head. ___I am just a dragoness to you. _

I open my mouth as though to retort before shutting it with a frustrated grunt. ___Cannot you just answer me that? What harm can it cause? _

She fixes a questioning stare on me before shaking her head.

I growl, irritated, and sourly seat myself. I scowl at her when she rolls her eyes, though she seems unaffected. Just as I turn my head away to ignore her, she startles me.

___Saphira._

___What? _

She snorts once softly, tipping her head at me. I glance at her, surprised and pleased.

___Saphira, _I repeat, testing the word.

___Thorn, _she replies, almost mocking in the way she cocks her head at me.

I still cannot help but grin very slightly. For finally, I know her name. And even if a small victory, it is a victory, nonetheless.

**Chapter end notes:**

Glaedr's demise was as brutal as it was-not to antagonize Shruikan-but to emphasize that Galbatorix is ___very _evil. If you caught on, Shruikan is quite reluctant to oblige, and once he has control of his actions he gives Glaedr a swift death. It had to be gruesome because it showed the person who ordered it done is very cruel, even if he doesn't show it very much. I hope I haven't upsetted you too much by writing it as I did-it was certainly my least favorite scene of the entire story and shall be the most violent/brutal. If you've become fond of Glaedr like I have, I sincerely apologize for killing him, but it was necessary for the story. They ___are _in Galbatorix's territory-bad things inevitably happen. I hope you won't judge the entire chapter based upon it, as I did try to lighten the mood toward the end.

The next few chapters will be less dark and evil, so there's something to look forward to in case this sort of put you off. Don't hate Shruikan because of this, as that was certainly not my intention. Glaedr-fans, just take a deep breath and refrain from wanting to kill skulblaka_fricai for killing Glaedr. ;)

0

'___Oh, that's irony for you. You wouldn't answer any of my questions, and now you're demanding that I answer yours?' _

******Saphira**

Three days had passed since Glaedr's death—almost five had passed since I'd heard word from or of Eragon. The monotonous cycle of waking and resting hardly improved the dour mood of the cell, thrown in constant darkness. Thorn hadn't spoken since I'd told him of my name—it was a rather worrying prospect, were it not he slept near constantly throughout it. I had considered doing the same, though even rest could not oust the boredom weighing down upon me.

Upon the third night—gauged only by the cycling of guards and their moods—suspicion to Thorn's lethargy had grown within me.

___Thorn, _I quest, not curious, not concerned, just naming him.

No response.

I tilt my head to one side, observing his seemingly peaceful sleep. He shifts—head shaking slowly—and turns to reveal his left side. His ribs stick out—not unlike a starved dog's would—and his hips are faintly visible. A cold film of sweat coats his forehead, his brow furrowed. He paws restlessly at the ground, oblivious to my watching.

___Thorn, _I call again. He groans in his sleep, curling closer to himself.

It is then I notice how puffy the red scars around his neck and face are—the scars created by the chains digging into his flesh. I warily stand, approaching a step when he doesn't move to respond. I take another step, and then another. He tenses—as do I—before relaxing. I remain on edge as I cautiously close the distance between us, pausing several yards away. My wings stretch slightly, as though ready to fend off an attack, though he lies almost limply on the ground, unresponsive.

Closer to him now, I can easily see the sickness to him—the weary shadow beneath his eyes, the cold that seems to clutch him even as I stand near, the shallow and ragged breaths he takes. I examine the cuts on his neck and face speculatively, only confirming my suspicion.

Infection.

I hiss in aggravation.

With an exaggerated movement, I reach forward and nudge his neck roughly with my head. He groans softly, curling tighter. I nudge him again. His eyes flicker open sleepily, and he regards me with nothing more than a quick glance before closing them. I reach my mind toward his boldly, though his sickness diverts my consciousness from his fevered thoughts.

I growl.

___Wake up, _I urge, taking a breath before whacking my tail against his side. He moans loudly, eyes flickering open again. Even with their scarlet tinge, I can see they are bloodshot, and bleary. ___Stay awake, _I command. He looks at me, uncomprehending. His eyes slip shut again. ___Stay awake! _I roar, slamming my head into the base of his neck.

He hisses weakly. Wearily, he opens his eyes, regarding me as though I am a nuisance determined to bother his sleep.

Which, in a way, I am.

He snorts at me, impatient. ___What do you want? _he snaps, as irritable as anyone interrupted from a good rest. When I am silent, grappling secretly for an answer, he snorts again and closes his eyes.

___You need to contact someone and get that treated, _I blurt. He opens an eye to a slit.

___Get what treated? _he grumbles.

I point my snout to his neck and face, adding in exasperation to his blank look, ___Your face, your neck—the cuts are infected. _

___A shame, _he yawns, sounding none the bit bothered. ___Suppose that is bad, huh? _

___Yes, _I insist in a growl. ___You need it to get treated. _

___By whom, exactly? _

___Galbatorix—_he winces—___Shruikan, the guards, a healer, I don't know! _I snap.

___They wouldn't help, _he dismisses. He closes his eye again. ___I'm going back to sleep. _

___Infections kill, _I growl.

___What a shame, _he drawls.

___Why are you giving up so easily? _I demand. He groans, tilting his head to the side.

___Leave me alone. _

___Not until you answer me. _

A dry chuckle bursts from him, sounding more a cough than a laugh. ___Oh, that's irony for you. You wouldn't answer any of my questions, and now you're demanding that I answer yours? _

___Yes, _I agree, irritated.

He chuckles, the sound fading with his breath.

___Thorn! _I growl. ___Do something. _

___Do what? _he demands.

___Something! _

___Why do you care? _He opens his eyes to look up at me seriously. ___My death would be of no consequence to you. _

___Thorn… _I growl, though I have no answer. Snappishly turning and stalking off, I listen in frustrated silence as he chuckles after me. Quiet quickly replaces the quiet sound. I glare at the dragon across from me, irritated. How can he so easily dismiss his fate—how can he just ___accept _death as though it is nothing?

Glancing at his emaciated hide, a hint of understanding ebbs into my conscious, though I stubbornly press it off.

___Fine, _I say, glaring at him. ___Die. I don't care—you're right. _

He looks at me blearily. ___Now you're making me wrong, _he sighs.

___What do you mean? _

___By saying that, you do care—which you shouldn't. _

I growl. He shakes his head slightly.

___Forget it. _

He closes his eyes again, though I don't bother rebuke him for such an action. If he wishes to just let himself die, then I should let him die. Simple as that. My gaze remains locked on him, however, and I cannot help but feel absurdly angry with him for just giving up so easily. Taking charge, I stand, storming over to the cell door and glaring out at the guards. I concentrate on expanding the borders of my mind, yet they seem impossibly bound to this small room, unable to be stretched. I focus on the guards, determined to reach them. The wall surrounds me like a bubble, stretching elastically to my efforts yet never once giving.

With an irritated growl, I redouble my efforts, ramming full force at the mental barrier. It bends, bends further and further, yet it stubbornly refuses to snap. Instead of pulling back, I steadily apply more pressure, my legs shaking slightly and my brow furrowed deeply in concentration. I can feel it giving at an excruciatingly slow pace, the ability to extend my mind tested to its very limits.

And then: ___snap! _

The mental barriers recoil as though it truly were a band stretched too far, the three consciousnesses of the guards coalescing as though candles lit in the dark. I carelessly throw myself at the nearest one, ordering, ___Get a healer. _He pales, turning to face me. Something in his expression is caught between awed and horrified. When he remains blank and confused, I snap, ___Now! _

The guard fumbles over an excuse for his companions before darting off. I glance after him, riding his consciousness past several halls before the snapped mental barrier drags me back some. The other two guards stare in confusion after their partner, though I spare them not a glance as I turn back to the smile.

Thorn looks at me with an amused look—head raised—though deep sadness and confusion penetrates his gaze.

___Why? _he asks, voice clearer but still soft with weakness.

___Why? _I repeat, settling in the corner. I tilt my head one way, glancing at him. ___Why not? _

He chuckles ruefully, shaking his head. ___You claim that I should not think of you anything other than dragoness— _

___-you shouldn't, _I agree, though he continues unrelentingly.

___-yet you make it impossible for me _******not **___to think of you differently. _

___What is that supposed to mean? _I demand, mildly offended.

A raucous laugh escapes him, hoarse with sickness yet still genuinely amused. ___Ah, Saphira, _he sighs, sobered.

___Thorn, stop, _I order before he can think any more on it. I fix him with a hard glare, though a draconic grin crosses his face in mock retort.

___Why do you hate me? _

___Because you serve Galbatorix! _I roar. He winces, curling in on himself and seemingly hiding from my presence.

___So you hate me because you hate him? _he asks. Bitterly.

___Yes. _

He shakes his head at me. ___You are gravely mistaken to think he and I are the same. _He turns his back to me, wings ruffling beneath his chains.

___You are gravely mistaken to think I'll pity you and decide otherwise, _I counter. A quiet chuckle resonates through the cell.

___I know, _he answers simply. ___I know. _He glances over his shoulder, flashing a pained smile at me, before lowering his head to the ground and closing his eyes.

I sigh in frustration at his impossibly accepting nature and sit in the opposite corner, waiting. I silently offer a hope that this week will go by quickly, lest I find myself agreeing with this strange red dragon.

* * *

******Thorn **

She denies me so much I wonder who she addresses when she makes the refusals. For I know that I have not committed the wrongs for which she judges me, yet she treats me as though the faults are my own. It is confusing to try and be two beings at once—to be the humble, enslaved hatchling to offer only strength and loyalty to a King, and to be the rebelling, quieter dragon that secretly relishes in her presence.

I snort quietly—no. If nothing else works, I shall distance myself so much from her that she will not think to approach me. I will become callous, I promise myself, and cold, and reproving. ___Like the King, _I muse sourly.

___What? _

I wince inwardly at the curiosity in her voice. When once I would've persisted for an answer, she now does. ___Nothing_. Fatigue claws at me and I sigh deeply, submersing myself in it and letting her presence fade into the darkness, a candle snuffed.

Something drags me upright, teeth locked around my neck. I don't bother quest out with my mind or open my eyes—instead I just sigh wearily. My limpness seems to vex him, though I offer no showy strength that would deny my true ailing. The chains, I notice, have been removed from my legs, but not my wings, and somehow the dragoness comes to mind. I open one eye to a slit—through it I can just make out the hazy reddish-blue, tinged with gray, that is her. More prominent, however, is the enormous black mass half-crouched over me, dragging me swiftly away.

I sink beneath consciousness once more, not bothering struggle against the dark.

Hours seem to have passed when I next awaken, aware only of cool stone. My claws scrape lightly against it, testing it, and I recognize the room before I even open my eyes. Absent from his throne, the King stands silently before his dragon, their eyes meeting as the Black Dragon bows his head. For a long moment, the significance in that glance is even visible to me, though a sharp twist of pain in my neck interrupts it. Neither turns to look at me as I shift, the chains on my wings seeming to outweigh the world. I sink to the floor, as low as I can possibly be, and it is then I notice an unusual figure in the corner.

I blink twice, trying to confirm it.

Like a shadow, he slips from the room, sparing me a quick backwards glance. Our eyes meet, and for once, I can feel his true regret, his grief, and his despair just as clearly as I know he can feel mine. For a moment, we feel each other, and then he is gone, off to attend some other duty for the King, no doubt.

I glance over as a low growl beckons me. Shruikan's reprimanding gesture goes unheeded by me as I glance sorrowfully after the young man's exit—___Murtagh_. A moan breaks forth from me and I lurch to my feet, glaring loathingly at the two beings before me. The two who have imposed so much upon my life that I cannot dare defy, who have ___used _my life—no, ___wasted _my life as though I were worthless, a pawn to be sacrificed, who have given up for any value to come of me other than…

I hiss at the thought.

___Why am I here? _I demand, my anger feeding my weakened body energy. Despite such, I know that if this is not a short conversation my legs will collapse before I may finish.

"Why?" muses the King aloud, fixing me with a look that is both pleasant and terrifying. An unusual feat to both cow and assure someone at once. "Why indeed." He turns back to Shruikan, who rumbles some answer I cannot catch. "Oh? Is that so?" He manages to hold the same genial demeanor as a kind host, yet malice burns in his eyes. "How tragic. Well, I suppose this is good news in its own way." A questioning growl from Shruikan goes unanswered as the King steps forward.

He strides over to me, my head already bowed so that our eyes are level. His dark, vengeful, and cold ones seem to obliterate the anger in mine. I can only dare imagine what he sees of mine—bloodshot from sickness, darkened from lack of light, and a sickly gray where they should be scarlet. His eyes narrow fractionally as he appraises me, mine mirroring his. We remain like that for several moments, Shruikan observing with more than a hint of displeasure.

"Well," comments the King, turning with a flourish to stride over to his empty throne, "it appears we have a challenge before us, don't we?" Shruikan growls, though I dare not open my mind to him to see what he has said. "Know that you ask me yet another mercy when you have ruined so many I have given you," he continues, a rebuke for Shruikan and I. "To treat you would be to give you yet another opportunity to succeed—or fail. You have failed me so greatly I fear my trust in you is lacking."

___Then kill me, _I answer flatly. He chuckles in a way that could almost be mistaken for amusement if not cruel victory.

"No, I cannot kill you, for that would ruin the last of any of my hopes for you—what a tragedy that would be. To die absolutely worthless, having failed every small task I set for you, without even a heart for heeding my words and devoting yourself more." He shakes his head in mock dismay, myself burning with outrage. "Foolish hatchling. You're so terribly expectant that my mercy is a given—when it is not. I have had far more patience with you than I would with any other. It is a gift, really, for me to be so merciful, yet my temper can only be tempted so far."

The words are both a reprimand and a threat.

"So you present me an interesting quandary. If I were to just heal you, would you learn of your follies ever? The chains were not there simply to discomfort you, no—they were to show you as you clearly cannot see that you are bound to me, and bound to me you shall remain." He addresses Shruikan as he speaks, and the Black Dragon's head reluctantly bobs down in a bow. "You must remember that, Thorn. And if you push yourself too far, if you ignore me so, you will find unfortunate consequences." A skeletal hand gestures lazily at my head and neck.

I am baffled as to how he can suddenly take the fault from himself and place it upon both Shruikan and I. For a moment, he pauses, regarding us as though we are nothing more than two of his human guards. Spite curls his lip down, disdain written on his expression. A sudden surge of anger wells within me at that smugly confident look, though before I can even begin to voice a thought, he resumes speaking.

"So shall I heal you, or shall I not?" He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward like a child examining pieces on a game. "There is a possibility no healing is required," he adds, to Shruikan's growl. "Though that is unlikely." He leans back again, drumming his fingers lightly on his leg in consideration. "If I heal you, there is still no guarantee you will oblige to my orders, and thus I will have wasted all my efforts in vain. If I don't heal you, you will die. No tears shed for the failures, I'm afraid, and certainly nothing to be remembered by. Your existence will have been that of a shadowy pawn, used to destroy and kept away so the world might not have witness what you truly are."

I glower at him, though inside, I know, I'm agreeing.

___So why not just kill me—get it over with? _I press.

"Hmm, how easy that would be," he muses in return. "It would be a slow death, of course. Infections of this sort are not nearly as lenient as I am." I resist a snort to that. "And it would be a painful death—you'd be awake until near the end, in agony, and then your heart would stop." He shrugs, completely unfazed. "Lovely end, isn't it? Appropriate for you, I suppose." I growl at him, unable to resist, though my legs traitorously decide that they can no longer support me and fold beneath me. I lay on the ground, too weakened to muster a harsh glare.

"Or, I could heal you, you could actually ___do _what I have commanded you—" he snorts derisively "—and then perhaps your life would not be so miserable."

My brow furrows in confusion, though I force myself not to sound too curious as I ask warily, ___What have you commanded me?_

"'What have you commanded me, my King?'" reprimands the man before me. His gaze is cold—threatening.

___What have you commanded me, my King? _I amend.

"Why, to mate with the dragoness, of course," he laughs, as though it is the funniest joke he's ever heard.

Shruikan and I exchange glances.

"You have some time," he continues, "Two days or so before the choice will not be yours so much as hers."

___What do you mean? _When he remains silent, I sigh and add, ___My King. _

"I am giving you—well, have given you—a week to acquaint yourselves. If she accepts my offer to join me now, she will swear an oath to mate with you within the year." If dragons could pale, I was certain my face would haven been white instead of red. "If she does not accept, well, I may either force her to accept—" a shudder involuntarily runs down my back "—or you might force yourself upon her."

___I would never do that! _I roar, more defiant then than I had been in perhaps all my life before. I simmer from the floor, wishing only to stand and tear him apart. He flashes me a wide smile; if snakes could smile, I know it would look as he did then.

"Who says you have a choice, my pawn? You are just that—a pawn, a small token that I might use to benefit myself. If you prove worthless, you have proved only that you are just as your position. If you prove something, well, perhaps you might not be such a coward."

___Kill me, _I growl. ___I won't do it. _

He laughs again in earnest. "There you go again, believing your word makes any difference for my decision." He stands, casually strolling over to stand before Shruikan again. "Wouldn't you agree it's amusing how he oversteps his place?" he asks, though Shruikan and I both know he expects and wants no answer. A moment of consideration fills the silence before he nods once. "I will heal you," he concludes, "for nothing else than you to perhaps redeem yourself. Death would be a mercy, and as I said before, you may only tempt my mercy so much." I growl low, hoping to appear menacing. Instead, the dryness in my throat just makes me sound weak.

Shruikan looks at me, something torn between helplessness and pity in his gaze. He turns away quickly, though, and I imagine it is so Galbatorix will not notice the gesture.

For the third time, my mind falls away, drifting back into oblivion.

0

'...they close in, whispering all the while, a haunted look glowing in their eyes...'

******Thorn**

A million whispers fill my mind, each one murmuring something I cannot distinguish. Some are wearied, others vivacious, some sorrowful, others overjoyed, some silky, some rough, some bold, some quiet. The tumultuous emotions sway me in their midst, and I can hear their efforts growing only more fervent and confusing with each moment. My thoughts are stretched thin, a lethargy seeming to overcome me as well from the sheer volume of consciousnesses.

___Let us free, _the whisper carries, ___let us out. _

So many verses to this wordless, emotion-written song; only few of which I can know. I strain to understand, my grip on comprehension teetering precariously. Frustration gnaws at me as that feeble grasp slips, throwing me once more into gray confusion. I feel the presences' desperation, their sudden urgency that I know—that I hear them for what they say—yet it all seems colorless. Not even white, but gray—cloudy, grim, and suffocating.

___Help us! _plead the whisperers. ___Save us. We need you._

___How? _I ask, cursing when they offer no clear answer. Like starving wolves snatching futilely at a slab of meat not large enough to feed them all, the presences' cling to myself fiercely, begging.

___Let us free! _

___I don't know how! _I answer, my own voice a lost whisper to them. The constant lisping noises nearly drive me to madness and I wish to shout at them for silence; yet they continue their assault unrelentingly.

___Let us free! _

Again, I answer the same, yet no matter how hard I try to make my voice heard, my shouts are only whispers as theirs, and eventually my despairing sobs at their torments are whispers too.

___Let us free! _chant the whisperers.

___Let me free, _I whisper back. ___Let me go. I can't help you. _

___Free us! _

___I can't! _

___You lie, _accuses one, voice swept away as a chorus of clambering agreements topple over me. It sounds almost a hiss, the rapid yes's and liar's that follow.

___I cannot help you, _I again beg of them.

___Help us, help us, _they whisper as one.

I press my hands to my forehead slick with sweat and exhale heavily. ___Silence, _I order.

___Help us, _they retort.

I feel the tension grow in my shoulders, my teeth grit, my eyes already closed tightly as I battle the whisperers within. My back is pressed against the cool stone behind me, a thin tunic pressing lightly against my scarred torso. I worry absently if a guard will round the corner, ask of me why I appear so ill and pale, and that I will have to devise an excuse for them. The whispers suddenly become louder at my mental distraction and I rub my temples with my fingers uselessly.

___Quiet. Please, _I beg of them.

___Help us! _they cry.

A loud groan escapes me and I drop my hands hastily from my face as heavy footsteps round the corner. Tucking my collar more securely and resting my trembling arm briefly against the wall to still it, I nod gravely to the man. He bows graciously in return, face hardly twitching from its usual stoic appearance. I sigh mentally in resignation at that all-too-familiar look. Unsure how to address me, he shifts uncomfortably, offering a hasty, "Are you well, sir?" as he searches for a better way with which to call me. I roll my shoulders subtly, feeling the ache there—and the bruises.

"Fine," I dismiss, as politely as I can force my voice to be past my gritted teeth. I reluctantly force them to unclench, my muscles to relax somewhat, and a pleasant smile to grace my face. "Very well, actually," I add.

"That is good," agrees the guard awkwardly. I can see from his edgy stance that he is just as unhappy to be caught before me as I before him. "I shall be returning to my post, then," he says lamely, departing. I watch after him for a moment, the whispering nearly driving me to kick the wall or shout curses or simply stomp my feet in some childish tantrum. ___Anything _to rid myself of them would be reprieve, I know, from their incessant talking.

___Be quiet, _I try to order, though my voice carries no more substance than theirs.

___Free us. _

___I cannot. _

___Free us. _

___Let me think, _I beg, wearily forcing myself from the wall. I nearly collapse against it as the whisperers desperately fling thoughts at me, emotions of all sorts. Anger swells within me at their actions, my fists clenching just as my eyes water from their terrible predicament, heart tangled in a tug-of-war. I stiffly move down the corridors, pausing only twice to press my forehead to the wall in a vain effort to relieve the headache rapping harshly against my skull.

___Free us, free us, free us, _they chant.

I continue on, ignoring them. I straighten my ruffled black vest, smooth over my comfortable silk shirt and pat dust off my similarly dark brown breeches. Taking several deep, calming breaths, I slowly quell the harsh, shallow breaths from before, my headache relieved somewhat. I force myself to straighten from my hunched, sickly position, soon striding down the corridor with what one could call the regality of a Prince. My heart clenches in my chest at the whisperers' insistence, yet I force myself to be calm and to walk.

I ascend a stone staircase slowly, each step plagued with the weighty burden of the whisperers. I grasp the wall tightly for support, though even so I worry over whether my legs will support me. Despite my fears they do, and soon I am moving about a much more comfortable corridor, adorned with soft tapestries and a homey hearth in one distant corner. Nobility converge around there, servants bustling through the hall grimly, delivering trays filled with pastries and sweets to their respective masters. I spare a brief glance at a group of younger women gossiping with each other over glasses of tea. I smile politely at them and they wave back shyly in response, resuming their rumoring once I round the nearest corner. I can just hear their talk turn to me before the whisperers assert their presences' once more.

___Please, leave me be, _I groan in a whisper.

___Let us free._

I sigh silently, nearing colliding with a stray servant. She hastily apologizes though I calmly interrupt her to assure she has not angered me at all and she should just continue about her way. The relieved look does not go unmissed by me that I have not hit her or scolded her as she passes, bowing deeply.

"Thank you," I could almost hear her whisper, and I flinch to the sound of a ___real _whisper. The whisperers in my head—as though they have heard—begin anew with their scolding and begging. I move down the empty hallway, beleaguered by my quiet companions. It is a tedious process for me to undo the latch at my room, struggling to accomplish even that simple task as the voices batter me away.

___Stop, _I order them, flopping down heavily onto my bed. I place a hand over my eyes, closing them in a futile attempt to rid myself of the voices.

___No, no, free us_. I groan loudly.

___I can't, _I insist. I absently trace the smooth blanket beneath me, marveling at the soft cottony material. I peer out from under my hand at the ceiling, a deep oaken wood highlighted with streaks of copper. Around it are equally dark walls, a dormant hearth resting in one corner while a wash basin sits placidly in another. Two shelves crouch near the wall farthest the door, each filled clumsily with scrolls. I know those scrolls well—having read every word upon them in horror, discovering twisted secrets I would never have imagined. Morbid curiosity had driven me then, though I know that secretly I had hoped it would've been enough to distract myself from ___them. _

I snatch the nearest pillow and pitch it at the wall, watching it slump to the floor pathetically. I bury my face in the remaining pillow, clutching the edges of it as though it is everything of reality and I dare not let it slip away.

___Why won't you free us? _ask the voices, dismayed.

___I can't, _I answer against the pillow. They continue their restless chatter, though I am no longer listening, no longer attempting to listen—just drifting in the grayness.

Sleep somehow finds me.

* * *

___Murtagh! _

The word bursts from me before I can contain it, my mind grasping after his as our consciousnesses suddenly seem two and not one again. A terrible loneliness overwhelms me at his absence and I redouble my efforts, finding nothing but a sea of blackness in his wake. I moan quietly in despair.

___Hatchling, _reprimands the deep, unmistakable voice of Shruikan.

___Why? _I ask brokenly. ___Why do you do this to me? _

___Do what? _he asks, and I can tell he is only feigning innocence.

___Allow me to see and then blind me again. _

___I don't think I understand. _

___You know what you just did! _

A heavy sigh. ___Yes. I do. _

___Then why? Why would you let me see him if just for a moment? Why are you blocking me now? _

___Thorn, you know not what you ask. _

___Why won't you let me speak with him? _I roar back, endlessly disappointed and saddened.

Another sigh. ___His suffering should not be yours too. _

___I want it to be mine, _I retort fervently. ___He is my rider. We are meant to celebrate and suffer together, not apart. _

___If he must go mad then why should you be troubled by his madness too? _

___What do you mean? _

He remains silent and I use the time to access my true surroundings. The familiar darkness of the cell greets me, though to my shock and surprise no chains bind my wings or legs.

___The tyrant saw fit to remove those, _elaborates Shruikan as I inspect the flawless skin on my wings suspiciously.

___Why? _I ask, forgetting my earlier request. For the moment, anyway.

Shruikan shrugs through our link. ___It's easy enough to guess. _I growl indignantly, prodding him harshly mentally in demand for an answer to my question. ___I shouldn't have let you even know him for a moment, _he rebukes. ___Look how ungrateful you are—how it would've destroyed you as it destroys him. There is no point in ruining both of you when it is possible to save one. _

___I would rather go mad than watch he go mad before me, _I hiss.

___Perhaps. But the King would not have you go mad so easily, and so you must oblige to his—and subsequently my—orders. Are we clear? _

___Who were they? _I ask suddenly. ___The voices? _

___Dragons, _answers Shruikan. A chill passes over me and I glance over to see the dragoness—Saphira—regarding me peculiarly. I glance off to the side, waiting for Shruikan to continue.

When he doesn't, I prompt, ___The ones from the Eldunarís? _

I can almost see his nod. ___The same. _

___Why do they… whisper like that? _

A shiver runs down my back at the word, the sudden cold around me seeming even more malevolent.

___It is all they can do, _he answers gravely.

A silence passes between us as neither dares bring up why.

___I must be going, _interrupts Shruikan suddenly. ___Goodbye. _

I nod slowly, defeated, as his presence slips away as well. Pain racks me suddenly—as though his and Murtagh's presences were the only thing keeping me from it—and I stagger to my feet with a groan. Saphira eyes me oddly, a contemplative glint in her eyes.

___Your fault, _I seethe, finding a new blame to throw on someone else. ___It's your all your fault, you stupid dragoness. _

Something in my voice keeps her from a sneering response, though her look is deadly. ___I did nothing other than save your life, _she replies coolly, the same aura as a huntress asserting dominance over cornered prey.

___Exactly, _I snap, riding the surge of my anger. ___Had you let me just die, things would be so much easier! _She growls; I ignore it. ___If you knew half the things I have to live through you wouldn't be so hesitant to let me die. If you were even somewhat kind you would've just allowed me to. You're no better than the rest of them—merciless. _

Mirroring snarls remain on our faces, our eyes locked. Neither anger nor spite is there; a mutual sorrow seems to pass between us and I tear my gaze away from her.

___There's something else. _

Her words are quiet, yet somehow startling in the silence that had passed between us. I nod grudgingly. She cocks her head inquisitively at me, trying to determine it for herself, before her eyes narrow suspiciously.

___If you're thinking what I'm speaking of, then know that it is of no willingness on my part, _I point out. She growls dangerously. For a moment, I fear she will attack me, though a new surge of strength infuses me as I feel the freedom of my wings, my unbound legs. I glance at her levelly, confident in my abilities. She drops her head, baring her teeth at me, shaking with her outrage. ___As I said, it is of no willingness on my part and if I can, I won't do it._

___What do you mean, 'if you can'? _she hisses.

___If I can, _I repeat calmly, ___the King controls my life, Saphira. _

___Don't call me that, _she growls. ___Never call me that again. _

___All right, dragoness, _I concede. ___I won't. But don't blame me—I was, and am, as reluctant as you are now at such news. Which, _I add with a dour glance at her, ___is why it was so unappreciated that you would save me. If I had died none of this would be happening. _

She looks for a moment ready to lunge, a low hiss building in her throat. ___Don't you dare even try and blame this on me, Thorn. _

___So now you can use my name and I can't use yours? _

She leaps forward and we tumble in a flurry of claws and limbs, haphazardly wrestling in the small dungeon. Blood is drawn on both sides, our teeth both stained ruby by the time we pause for breath. She latches onto my neck ferociously, shaking it vigorously. Though not, I notice, hard enough to kill or severely impair me. Retaliating with a swipe of my claws, I force her back, pressing my head down so her teeth cannot reach my neck so easily. Our wings graze the ceiling, folded silently as we press each other back. I notice with wry amusement how it is almost a dance, the way we shuffle to and fro, jumping back and dodging carefully.

Finally I manage to drag her down by her forepaws, her teeth futilely seeking purchase on my head as I bar her away from reaching my grasp on her legs. I keep her pinned despite her struggles and eventually she quiets, stilling with a disgruntled snort. I back hesitantly, still wary of an attack. She makes a false strike at my left foreleg and I dodge before ghosting back over to 'my' half of the cell.

We stare at each other for several long moments, both bleeding, both battered somewhat, both strangely satisfied.

And then: ___What in the name of Alagaësia were you two doing? Have you any clue how difficult it is to hide you two from the King if you are making such a racket as that? _

___Now, now, Shruikan, you're starting to sound like an old man. Everything's fine, _I dismiss before realizing what I have said. Shruikan snorts, affronted.

___You do not have to try and keep that from the King, so you'd best not talk to me in that way, _he growls.

___My apologies, _I offer halfheartedly. ___Nothing's wrong—as I said before. _

___You were making quite a bit of noise, _protests Shruikan.

___And it is of your concern? _retorts the dragoness slyly. Shruikan pauses, grappling with words, before shaking his head sourly.

___Know that I will not be so kind next time—if you chose to be so loud as you are now, I will not be so lenient as to have the King think other thoughts. Understood? _

___Yes, Black Dragon, _I sigh formally.

He departs without comment to that and I settle gratefully to the ground. Sometimes the only relief is solitude, though the presence of the dragoness is oddly comforting as well. She rumbles after Shruikan's presence, as though searching for further argument, though silence greets her.

With nothing else to do, I reach out with my mind, searching, questing, feeling ahead for anything. Familiar black cloaks everything, preventing me from gaining any bearings and leaving me blind to those around me. I concentrate deeply on the grayness, the familiar chill, the lisping murmurs, the frustration, the fear, the desperateness to my tone, and suddenly I am merged once more in them.

Like a wave dousing a fire, the voices pour over me, my courage fleeing as suddenly as it had arrived. I press myself back from them, their muddled consciousnesses and alien talk. Yet their conversing becomes abruptly clearer, and I am too bewitched to even think of retreat. I hesitantly quest forward and am suddenly immersed by them, as a champion is drawn into the ranks of their companions. A strangely odd feel it had on me to be suddenly just another consciousness in the vast, discordant begging.

I ease myself into the flow, a turbulent sweep of gray, feeling the hundreds of different yet remarkably similar beings around me. As I slowly sort out my captors, shadowy apparitions coalesce near the edges of my sight. Their wings are bowed over their heads like hoods, their head low to the ground in their constant murmuring. Magnificent colors dance before my vision, yet none of it seems substantial enough to belong to a single gray dragon. Even as I look at a blue, red from another blurs it. With sudden, frightening unison, their gazes lift to stare at me, each reflecting powerfully their true colors.

The whispers become louder, louder, and I wish suddenly to draw away. A circle, I note despairingly, as I glance around. Trapped—they close in, whispering all the while, a haunted look glowing in their eyes.

___Let us free, _they whisper, mouths moving fractionally with the effort as though they truly speak. ___Let us free. _

I back slightly, only to whirl back around as I notice how close those dragons are. Cornered and terrified, I demand, ___Who are you? _

A roll of mirthless laughter interrupts their whispering. ___You know who we are, _they answer together.

___Why are you like this? _

___Like what? _they whisper levelly.

___Demonic. _

The word seems to sting them and several jolt back as though from a revelry. Their bodies liven with color, though as the unaffected gray ones turn to glare at them reprovingly, the color drains away. ___The gray ones, _I muse, the barely-real dragons turning back to look at me. Their whispering grows as they close in. All around me I see gray; and somewhere impossibly far beyond, asylum in the blackness. I strain to keep sight of it, though a pair of glowing red eyes blocks my vision. I recognize the dragon—even colorless—in an instant. My heart stops in my chest.

For there, standing disdainfully before me, cloaked in grayness and closing in on me like its counterparts, is ___me. _

* * *

I suddenly become aware of my surroundings once more, startled to find my eyes already open, my breath sighing out heavily as I collapse to the floor in confusion. The Eldunarí Dragons. The Whisperers. The Gray Ones. All of it seems insufficient to call them, yet the terror at the encounter clouds my thoughts for several long moments. I lie on the floor, realizing that barely a moment has passed as I watch the dragoness move warily at the edges of the cell, pacing and watching me as well. My confusion reflects in her gaze, though neither of us speak it.

___Something very wrong has happened to the dragons, _I say at length, slow and careful.

___What do you mean? _Genuine curiosity laces her voice.

___I don't know. Perhaps it is the King's working—perhaps it is just the way Eldunarís are. _I pause suddenly, brow furrowing as I recall ___myself. _The unearthly quality, ghosted back to life to torment me. How we were one—I felt as he did, and I was absolutely certain he'd felt as I had in that moment we'd shared glances. There was no doubting that the experience would haunt me for days to come.

___The Eldunarís are what? _

___Demonic, _I answer, the word a curse in itself. ___Alien. Otherworldly. Evil. _

She pauses to glance at me skeptically, though the seriousness in my expression must convince her for she frowns. ___How can you see them? _she questions, noticeably less confident.

___I don't know, _I repeat lamely. ___Again, maybe it is just the way Eldunarís are. _I pause thoughtfully before shaking my head. ___Though I strongly doubt it. Something beyond us is at work here. _

___Let us free… _

___What? _both Saphira and I ask, exchanging looks. The ghostly whisper vanishes like smoke on a wind, leaving us nothing. I shiver in response.

___Gray Ones, _I murmur in my mind, toying with the name.

___What? _

The sudden urgency in her voice surprises me, though I roll my shoulders nonchalantly.

___The Eldunarí Dragons appeared as gray when I saw them. And they whispered. _I wince secretly at the word.

___Thorn, _answers Saphira slowly, and something in her voice is uneasy, ___I do not think those were just Eldunarí Dragons. I think… _she pauses, frowning, before shaking her head.

___I think that those were the Grey Folk. _

0

___'What is this? _

___Whatever you wish it to be.'_

******Thorn**

I look at her, strangely stricken by her words; fearful on some subconscious level I couldn't have dared hope to pinpoint. My thoughts surrender to the quiet terror, allowing me no reasoning to dispel the unease. I inch back, my feet shuffling along carefully. A thin scar twitches on my leg as it brushes the cold stone of the cell wall, scraping gently before I scramble away from it. My heart thunders in my chest, my breath coming short as the dragoness watches me in stoic silence.

I shake my head slowly, bowing back into a corner. Sitting back on my haunches, I wrap my wings firmly against my sides, ducking my head slightly as I do so. Unsatisfied, something forces me to my feet again, and I circle restlessly the spot, finding ease finally with my back to the dragoness seated not a dozen yards away. I press my forehead wearily to the uneven rock before me, using the point of discomfort to press aside the other worries.

The Grey Folk. An involuntary shiver works down my back, though the meaning behind such words baffle me. Perhaps, I reason, it is not the words so much the image of the ghostly dragons, joined in a perfect circle, whispering to themselves. The tongue with which they had spoken had seemed ancient in some unexplainable way, reminding me almost of a forgotten language spoken once more. I had recognized it—yet I had not.

I breathe deeply, questing outward. My mind brushes the muzzy ones of the guards, forever ignorant of half the things truly happening, and then pushes past them subtly. A sleepy dog raises its shaggy head queerly at my inadvertent intrusion; a mouse stiffens in its warm straw-covered den in surprise. I ignore them, brushing past like a dog nosing through a newly-discovered closet. More humans, their thoughts selfishly concerned only with themselves; I take interest quickly in a quieter conscious, using it to steady myself somewhat.

A low rumble rebukes me and I reflexively edge back, steeling myself a moment later. ___Shruikan, _I say tersely, though an odd feeling of being ignored—not unlike a rough shouldering aside—answers me.

___Go away, Thorn. I won't speak to you, _he growls in return. Back to me—presence no longer focused.

___Very well, _I agree mildly, before adding, ___Though, you do that enough anyway I need not bother. _A stern growl. ___Alright. I'll get out of your head. One question: Where are you? _

Some mental door closes between us, shutting me out forcibly from him. I wince, returning briefly to my own body, before expanding outward again, spreading myself around uncaringly. The stone walls drop away around me, replaced only by the thoughts of differing things—of a finch locked away dismally in a lady's room, of a spider dutifully repairing its broken web, of soldiers bemoaning various things over cups of ale, and of the three glowing consciousnesses of the hatchling, the dragoness, the Black Dragon, and myself.

I regretfully pull away, blinking blearily as though awaking from a stupor. A heavy sigh escapes me—how much easier it would be to be just a human, to be insignificant, to have a life of my own. But no, I remind myself firmly, I serve my King, and my King alone.

Whether willingly or no.

___Who are the Grey Folk? _I ask, decidedly letting the suddenness of my question aside. I turn my head to glance at the dragoness, though she regards me blankly, her expression oddly empty.

___Why do you ask? _she returns.

I look at her flatly yet earnestly before answering. ___I need to know, Saphira. Please. _

Satisfaction overcomes me as her expression softens slightly to the sincerity in my voice, bowing her head in silent resignation. It seems the thrumming of our consciousnesses is the only sound to be found, though neither of us moves to break it. It is soothing—the soundless hum between us. Yet I refuse to be soothed, so instead I wait. I wait, wait for far too long for her answer; knowing inside that for any peace to possibly exist in me, I had to know who my Rider's tormentors were. She raises her head suddenly, as though I had voiced the thought aloud, and our gazes lock as she responds.

___I don't truly know, _she says, and I can hear the honest regret in her voice, ___little of them was ever known considering they were believed extinct long before written times. _She gives a disdainful snort before shaking her head ruefully. ___Would've been greatly helpful indeed if someone had considered to do so. _

___Perhaps they never knew either, _I defend lamely, my voice betraying my true disappointment. She shrugs a shoulder wearily before settling down as well.

___Perhaps, _she concedes, and to that I have nothing to say. We sit in silence, her bright blue eyes forever watchful, mine burning with need. Need to help my Rider, need to free the whisperers, need to escape, need to be ___me, _not what ___he _wishes me to be.

A memory not my own suddenly flashes behind my eyes and I start briefly before relaxing. I hesitate as it tugs me forward, drawing me away from painful reality. Wariness and questioning mingle within me, though eventually I succumb to my curiosity and I allow it to pull me along, ghosting alongside insubstantially.

Wintry smells fill my senses, overwhelming me briefly. As I test the bitter tang of them, I can taste their heady flavor that bespeaks great age, almost antiquity. Around me I can detect pine, oak, and maple, each scent dancing around me tantalizingly. Damp bark teases my senses; buried deeper a sweet hint of sap beckons. The fresh coolness of water suggests a river far beyond, out of reach the memory's expanses. Crisp grass prevails valiantly beneath the faint scent of heavy snow, earthy leaves covering it. Ice, too, I can detect from its clear, polished scent. Coarse hair of a large animal—perhaps a bear—emits a woodsy scent, a combination of the fine dirt of a summer day, the dryness of an autumn's rest in the shade, the grassy scent of lounging about in a clearing for hours, and the hearty warmth of a fresh kill.

I immerse myself in the memory, allowing everything of the world I know to be true to slip away. How beautiful the flowers taste, even trapped in ice; how calming does the smell of a robin's nest feel to my distraught consciousness. Every scent I find seems only to lead to another and soon I am certain the entire world I must've searched to find such vast diversity.

The smells vanish suddenly, though I realize a moment later that no, they have not vanished. Merely been dulled, as though a voice suddenly quieted. My initial dismay is greatly overridden by my sudden awe and disbelief as I stare upon a simple clearing, frosted over and unremarkable in most ways.

Despite its simplicity, it is absolutely beautiful.

The muted colors of cold winter months seem to shadow and soften its features so perfectly that I know it would be a crime to dare attempt copy it to parchment, to commit such beauty to a pitiful representation at all. For I see not just dull grays, buried greens and brilliant whites—but rather life personified, taking upon grays to shadow its shame, whites to caress and assure, to smooth out those problems and chase them away, greens to peer out quizzically, hoping for an opportunity at thriving.

I see lives in the shades and hues—how aged brown strikes a surprising similarity to a withered old man with his cane, somehow resilient enough to survive. The young buds—vague pinks and soft whites their coat—also draw my attention, resting up in the tree, like children curled calmly against the chill. A single rose—blood red and stunningly bright in the seemingly lackluster world—rests boldly atop the snow, perfect in every way. I stare at it, awed by its simple beauty.

___What is this? _I breathe aloud, still staring at the rose.

___Whatever you wish it to be, _responds a whisper. The colors lose their brilliance suddenly as renewed fear ebbs into my consciousness, threatening to shatter the glorious scene before me. I take several slow breaths to steady myself, locking away the fear stubbornly. Quiet approval echoes through me and I swing my head to the left, searching.

Twin violet eyes penetrate deep within me, yet I feel not the slightest unease—rather chilling peace with this new being. Gray washes out all color on the dragon's back and sides, though it seems less malevolent than before, less threatening. Nearly equal in size are we, and I hesitantly glance down at my paws after a moment's thought. If the dragon is gray, am I? Yet the scarlet upon my paws is just as remembered, and silent relief soothes away my unease. I glance back up again to find the dragon watching my actions pensively. A light furrowing of their—___her, _part of me amends as the luring smell of dragoness drifts toward—brow conveys to me her confusion, though her knowing purple eyes are unperturbed.

___Who are you? _I dare to ask, quietly as though fearing to break the perfection around me. She steps forward once, her paw leaving a gentle impression in the ground, the soft crush of snow beneath her pleasing to hear. I shake the thought off, focusing only on what she might or might not have to say. Even as I do so the pleasure at such a place seems to recede, the warmth retreating. I force away my doubts and once more embrace the goodness.

___I am Avaera, _she answers at last, drawing my attention suddenly. She tilts her head, a flush of purple suffusing her. Dazzled by her extraordinary appearance—shades both light and dark, all the same richness—I am left standing dumbly until finally the color drains away, leaving her a pale goddess in the snow. I shake my head again to clear the thought.

___Where are we? _I ask, distracting myself. She regards me coolly, almost icily, and then swings her head in a clear 'no'. At the crestfallen expression on my face, a very slight smile curls her lip, though she remains unchanged.

___At one time, the entire world was as this is, _she says, tilting her head back slightly to indicate the unfinished clearing. ___No matter the race we saw things as we were meant to—to savor the beauty around us rather than disregard it. Imperfections were not criticized; for there were no true imperfections at all, rather only critical eyes to view it. _She looks at me, never once blinking, though her gaze softens slightly, shifting from penetrating to eased.

___An impossibility, it is, to truly experience life until you have experienced what life is—what this is. _She sighs suddenly as though wearied. I reflexively take a step forward when she bows her head slightly, eager for more. The snow cushions my step, though even so it seems to stab a hot knife into the serenity. A coldness creeps back into her gaze as she stares at me.

___The world is riddled with strife, and grief, and guilt. Dangers and deaths and sorrow. These things cannot be eliminated entirely—but the damage can be mended. _Here her look becomes almost hard, her tone flatter than before as she continues. ___Cling to the danger, however, and you can never hope to mend it. Just as you cannot dam the seas or quench all hungers of the earth, you cannot hope to resolve your qualms unless you first end them. _

___What do you mean? _I ask slowly.

___At a time our stances in the world would matter not—a time long since forgone in these dark days. You stand not in a particularly admirable position, and it is almost cruel to ask of you to sacrifice more. And yet, at the moment, you present a greater problem than perhaps you recognize. _

A sudden wave of anger washes over me and the tranquility around us shudders with the force of it, the breeze surreptitiously picking up. The dragoness looks at me, unfazed. ___I know that I am a danger to those around me, _I say, forcing my voice not to be a snarl. ___I know that my existence taxes those who are foolish enough to dare help. Whatever you ask of me cannot be cruel unless it is to grant me any more than I have already, for that would just bring about more doom upon those who might escape it. _

A wry smile breaks her cold demeanor suddenly, though bitterness lingers in her gaze. ___Your recognition and acceptance of doom is almost noble, _she comments, ___and yet still, I wonder, whether you might accept a last thing. _

___What? _Genuine curiosity laces my voice, though I try to withhold any more interest. She shakes her head ruefully, her gaze leaving me for the first time since her appearance.

___Surrender her to us, _she answers at last, meeting my gaze once more. Despair engulfs me at her words, heart sinking; I force my emotions back. Even so, leaves wither on their branches, the breeze weakening and a sickly appearance overtaking the clearing. True coldness seeps into me and I sink to my knees dully.

___You can't ask that of me, _I say, surprised at myself yet fervent in my words. She just stares down at me and I feel a stab of pain lance through my heart. ___Everyone has been stolen from me—everyone. And finally it seems fate grants me a companion and you wish to steal her away? _

She cocks her head at me, violet eyes considering. ___Were you not the one who fretted earlier over whether it would be finer if you were dead—she'd be safer if you didn't exist? _

___You heard that? _I balk. She nods once, unperturbed.

___Of course. And understand this, Thorn—_an odd shiver runs down my back at the strange whisper—___you were right. But your death would not benefit us, so I do not suggest that course. Rather, allow her to come with us, and we shall deal with the rest. _

___What will you do with her? _I ask hollowly.

The purple of her eyes seems to brighten before darkening once more. ___What we do with her is best not spoken of, _she answers finally. ___Though, I assure you this—we will not harm her, nor will we force her to join us. _

A relieved sigh escapes me involuntarily and I curse myself silently. ___When? _The coldness in my tone dulls the once pleasant clearing further, cold nipping at my feet.

___Very soon, _she answers cryptically. A vexed look from me earns a bemused look in return. ___I told you already that I cannot tell you. _She sobers suddenly, a darkness creeping over her face. ___Very soon indeed. _

The message in her words is unmistakable. I focus tightly on the contact as it begins to fade. ___Not now, _I plead.

She gives me a last glance, finality in that look. ___Now, or never. _

And then she is gone, and my world plunges into blackness.

* * *

I awaken hours later, stiff and aching from being curled so tightly for so long, forehead throbbing with a headache from being pressed against the wall. The warmth of the clearing is forgotten as I whirl around suddenly, searching desperately. I swing my head to and fro, scanning the unchanging cell furtively, finding nothing. My heart sinks in my chest as the truth finally prevails and bursts into my mind.

___She's gone. _

My claws and teeth clench, a new thought occurring to me. What of the King when he discovers his loss? If he has not already intercepted their attempt, though doubt at such a thing lingers over me. Perhaps foolishly so, but still a comfort over the thought of her suffering a beating for attempting to escape. No cries of alarm sound, though, and no thoughts from Shruikan or the King. Silence pervades, chilling and deep.

I restively lay my head down on my paws, disbelieving. ___Saphira? _I quest, met by silence. A wall seems to bar me from extending my mind and I growl, flinging myself at it.

I plunge deep into the whispers, surrounded by them, unable to think or move or even breathe in such an onslaught. ___She's gone, _I yell furiously at them, yet none answer. ___Where have you taken her? _I demand.

Whispers, incomprehensible whispers of words I cannot say, drown me out, and I find myself floundering in them before sinking beneath, merciful silence engulfing me.

* * *

******Shruikan **

The throne room, thankfully unoccupied, is my retreat as I seat myself near the King's throne, grunting slightly as I settle down into a comfortable position. I glance over at the dimming hearth fire, staring at it several moments longer than necessary before lazily returning my gaze to the doors off in one corner. Folding my wings back and resting my head on my paws, I snort once quietly as dust kicks up from the floor.

A tentative thought prods my mind gently, seeking, searching, though I deny it and instead press it aside. Insistent, the tendril of thought slinks around my defenses, like a soldier trooping around a fortified camp they've found they cannot enter. Irritated, I lock my barriers tighter, steeling myself against them, though the feeling lingers like an insatiable itch. With a growl I drop my defenses fractionally, intending to drive them away.

Instead I am flooded with relief, the gesture almost an embrace as the being enters my consciousness. Thoughts of wonderment and confusion fill me, alongside fear and worry. The fretting alone nearly drives me mad, though coupled with the creature's clear relief I'm unable to fully drive them away. After a confusing moment I recognize the being and growl slightly.

___Go away, _I order the persistent little hatchling. A dismayed thought answers me. ___Stay back; stay away. I'm dangerous to you. Stay away. _An amused thought, almost a laugh. ___This is not funny—stay back, _I growl.

The contact vanishes without warning—a string snapped—and I bolt upright at the suddenness. Warily extending my mind, I find myself knocked clear of all logical thought as a mental blow plows into me. Once a hint of order returns to me I quickly throw up barriers—only to have them crumpled immediately after. Another spike shatters my thoughts and I lay dazed on the ground, unable to think of what is happening. A last blow knocks me clear into unconsciousness, oblivion swallowing me.

* * *

******Saphira **

Darkness sweeps over me, washing away the dullness of the cell to be replaced by an unusual nothing. Neither black nor white—colorless. The feeling disorientates me and I back, questing for some reality to cling to. A figure strides calmly from the darkness, a snarl rippling in my throat as I glare at them. Gray—of course. My snarl deepens, a growl echoing it in my chest. Violet flares to life in the darkness, sharply contrasting the nothing. I stare back at the dragoness in confusion and something akin to wonder as she approaches.

She looks at me speculatively, a pensive note lingering over her face as she slowly bobs her head up and then down. I wait in pointed silence before prompting, ___Where is this? _She pauses, raising her head once to look at me, our eyes level.

___Wherever it needs to be, _she responds simply. The whispery tone unnerves me and I retreat a step, drawing her attentive look. An aura of ancientness hangs there, waiting to be spoken of—bespeaking in itself wisdom. She appraises me as though I am a shy child, though I snort slightly in return. Cool violet eyes regard me before she takes a step back. ___Come, _she beckons, craning her neck forward. The grayness shimmers, overcome briefly by purple, before steadying once more. ___Follow me—we've little time. _I don't move, though frozen by defiance or uncertainty I couldn't know. She looks back at me, unworried, and gestures forward again.

___We cannot afford to tarry, Saphira, _she chastises. I growl in retort.

___How do you know my name? _I demand. She shakes her head, chuckling mirthlessly to herself, and moves forward, fading into the nothing slowly until she is just an outline. "Come," she says, and I hear her as though she stands right beside me. I start, then settle, glaring forward apprehensively. "Hurry," she whispers urgently. I steel myself and shake my head.

___Why should I follow you? _

She looks at me, eyes white in their insubstantiality. A hidden plea seems to glow there. My feet traitorously move forward, following until I regain my wits enough to stop. She continues to watch me, undeterred, and beckons again, ___Follow me. _Though a whisper, it seems a thunderous command, for I suddenly draw nearer with certainty. She reaches over, whispering amusedly, ___You and he are very much alike in some ways. _Before I can ask what she means, she touches her forehead briefly to mine, a flash of white blurring out my vision.

A marvelous feeling of weightlessness envelopes me, every worldly sense dropping away to reveal only the nothing—a nothing so empty even darkness could not find a place to nestle. An eternity seems to pass, the nothing gradually giving way to darkness. I float in it without a care, trusting nothing and everything to this stranger, eventually just closing my eyes and waiting.

Abruptly, reality kicks in, and the darkness takes on an odd shape—conjured from beneath closed eyes. Lethargy clings to me though I force my eyes open, only able to see through blurred vision dusky sand dunes and distant city lights. I groan quietly, trying to muster strength from my laden limbs—my bones ache miserably and my skull throbs with a headache.

Summoning a tiny vestige of strength, I peer out blearily at the world, my stupor delaying my shock. Two things draw my attention—a sprawled human figure, as well as a sack, covering a glowing green object. The color reminds me of grass, cool grass, and I thirstily lick my lips.

Fatigue prods at me hopefully and I surrender to it with a sigh, managing a last thought of the same cool green grass, atop it a curled green hatchling.

0

___'We have a duty to those people. This is certainly no time to be forsaking them.'_

******PART 2.**

******Saphira**

Warmth bathes my sides, a satisfied purr escaping me as I shift slightly, allowing the golden rays to lap at my neck and shoulder. The soreness there eases somewhat to the light's soothing touch, muscles loosening. I bask in the warmth for several long moments, savoring its heated feel upon my scales, before a lazy thought intrudes my peace. Where has this sunlight come from? Certainly there is no light here in this dark cold cell of ours… I crack open an eye slowly, wary.

Around me, sand drifts in a faint breeze, kicked up by the light tide and swept across. My gaze, though blurry, reveals the muzzy silhouette of a city, tall spires standing in sharp contrast to stout gray buildings. I blink once—twice in an attempt to distill the impossible image from my sight, yet it remains so. I frown, brow furrowing, and shift upright. The wind teases my wings, slipping cool wispy fingers over them and ruffling the membranous material. I shake them briefly to still the feeling, sending a thin layer of sand into the air. Shaking my head vigorously in turn as the tiny grains pelt my eyes, I tuck my head down toward my chest and wait for it to pass.

Hot sand churns beneath my feet, a mellow brownish-gold in color. I shuffle a foot experimentally, the sand around it loosening and sliding downward naturally. Sinking my claws into the thin substance, I test the boundaries of this impossibility—where is the cell? Should not I be with Thorn, still in the tyrant-King Galbatorix's clutches? I crane my neck down, patting my legs delicately with my snout and feeling for some sort of bond, some sort of chain. Yet my eyes have not betrayed me, and I find nothing to claim for still being captured.

A new trepidation enters my mind as I sit, folding my wings so that they form a protective tent around myself. The sand grazes them harmlessly, the soft shushing sound lulling me away from my silent worry. This is impossible, I say over and over, yet I cannot convince myself it is so. Resting benignly before the sun's glow is the city which once held me prisoner, sluggishly awakening to the sun's ascent. Nestled amongst it is the castle which I was captive—so why am I not there now? I stretch my wings, feeling the breeze upon them yet unable to say if it is real or not.

I take a deep breath. If this is real, then it is real. Somehow—some way—I have escaped Urû'baen. That is the reality. So why is it so difficult to accept? Silence answers me and I stare at the glowing capital for a long time, waiting for the inevitable alarms to sound, the bells to toll and the cry to rise up, and the tyrant-King to come and reclaim me. I wait, and yet nothing of the sort happens—instead unnerving calm greets me. I growl low in my chest, unhappy. This isn't right, I repeat again and again; this can't be right.

A quiet groan startles me from my revelry and I throw out my wings reflexively, snarling. ___Saphira? _asks a drowsy voice, fumbling for a contact. Sudden elation flows through me at the sound and I lower my wings and aggressive mental barriers.

___Eragon! _I return, carelessly seizing him by the back of his tunic and lifting him to his feet. He staggers, off-balance, and reaches a steadying hand for my neck. I step slightly closer so he can support himself, brushing my head against his chest reassuringly. He pats it carefully, one hand finding hold on a neck spike. After a hazy moment he seems to come to his senses, tightening his grip around my neck until it is such a strong hug it would choke any other. Unperturbed, I hum back quietly.

All too soon, he lifts his head, fixing me with a pair of bleary blue eyes. In them I can see the questioning—the wondering—yet worse, the fogginess of a slow blinding. Even the way he keeps a grip on my neck spike reminds me of a blind man seeking purchase, though I shake the thought off mentally. Still, meeting his gaze is difficult, sorrow he cannot see reflecting in mine. Sensing my dismay, he shakes his head, pats my snout again, and takes a careful step back. ___Don't worry about it, _he urges silently, and with an effort I obey. He looks around curiously, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he looks on. Confusion is written in his face as he looks back at me, though also hesitant disbelief.

___Where are we? _he asks slowly.

I stand wordlessly, sand hissing in protest as it is blown aside. My eyes rove the barren landscape, searching for some flaw—some trick that would prove it just some cruel joke of Galbatorix's. The haziness of a mirage has me wary for several long moments before I move on, dismissing it. Finally, having looked thrice over the land, I shake my head.

___The Hadarac Desert. _Doubt is clear in my tone, though also an uneasy certainty. This ___is _where we are. Might as well accept it some time.

___The Hadarac? _he repeats, as dubious as I. I nod once and he places his hand on my neck as though for support, expression dazed. ___How? _His voice is no more than a quiet murmur, though clearly heard in the sanctuary of our minds. I shake my head grimly, his arm loosening to allow me space to do so.

___I have no idea, _I respond honestly. ___Last I was in a cell, and then I awaken in a desert. _

He gives a mirthless chuckle. ___What trick of the King's is this? _he asks bitterly. I turn my head slightly to stare at him, discontented with his reference to Galbatorix as 'King'.

___If it is a trick, _I point out. He snorts once doubtfully, shaking his head again. A wave of nausea tumbles over us both and I rumble unhappily, he swallowing back bile. His arm suddenly seems less steady upon my neck, slipping off somewhat before I step closer and renew his grip. ___Did he harm you? _I ask. He looks at me oddly, cocking his head as though I am fretting over nothing he can see. Then recognition crosses his face and he darkens slightly.

___No. _He speaks flatly, turning away so he doesn't face me. I prod his back with a nudge, hoping to draw forth an answer. When he shoves me away lightly, I growl teasingly. He growls in return and I quiet abruptly. Bowing his head to his chest he pointedly ignores my silence, drawing back and crossing his arms. I wait, though he offers no explanations. He starts without warning as he turns his head to one side. Ignoring my silent query, he moves to the left, drawing my gaze to the rusty-brown sack lying harmlessly on the ground.

I watch in silence as he picks it up, weighing it pensively in his hands. He pauses, staring at the sack for a long while, before slowly moving a hand over the top part of it, sliding the cover off.

___Who? Who? Who? _

We both stagger slightly in surprise, he recovering enough to keep the sack in his hands. I fortify my mind instinctively, blocking out the clumsy questing. Though not in words, I recognize the questions written in the creature's thoughts, perhaps better than Eragon. He lets another moment pass, silence reigning between us, before carefully reaching inside the sack. Balancing the thin leathery material in the crock of one arm, he slides the large emerald stone out carefully, never once speaking or lowering mental barriers I feel built around his mind. I rumble discontentedly at that, though immediately I retreat to my own mind as the questioning returns.

Dropping the worthless sack, Eragon holds the stone eye level, turning it in his hands, the pulsing white veins occasionally flaring. A sick feeling of worry creeps over me before I belatedly realize it is the intruding consciousness's thought, not mine. Trepidation, fear, and curiosity mingle confusingly in my mind and I press the invader back, scarcely glancing at the stone as I search the unchanging landscape for my attacker. Nothing presents itself, though I don't dare to extend my mind to further assure myself.

Eragon touches one of the white veins speculatively, brushing a hand coolly over the egg's surface. ___So this is it, _he muses, though the gravity of the situation does not go unnoticed by him. I silently appraise the stone, feeling the small hatchling within struggle against something before giving up with an exhausted sigh.

___Help, _comes the mental thought, fear and despair and desperate need calling out. ___Help me. _

My eyes lock onto the jade stone as understanding dawns on me. I wordlessly reach past Eragon, nosing the stone carefully yet keeping my mental barriers firm. ___Hatchling? _I finally quest, tentative.

___Who? _the creature chirrups in answer, a terrified note to its voice. 'Who are you?' the words seem to say.

___A friend, _I assure, though when the hatchling's confused emotion reaches me I repeat it and add the unmistakable feelings of companionship and acceptance to it. ___A friend, _I repeat, and its simple terror quiets some. Eragon looks at me curiously and I drop my head slightly to nudge the stone gently. He relinquishes it to me as I carefully grasp it in my jaws, feeling the frightened emotions of the hatchling as I lift it. ___Be still, no harm will come to you, _I say, using calming emotions to convey such. The hatchling chirps once piteously from inside the stone and I cannot resist a quiet chuckle.

"This is unbelievable," breathes Eragon, hands resting on his hips as he leans back, tilting his face upward to the warm breeze. Laughter fills the silence as he shakes his head, pacing around in a loose circle. "How, Saphira? How can we be here?" He turns on me suddenly and I pause, skeptical. Something—almost a memory—itches at my consciousness, daring me to think hard enough and remember. Yet the moment I attempt to do so, it vanishes, a rabbit startled away. I sigh heavily.

___I don't know, _I say simply. He continues shaking his head, a bitter smile appearing on his face as he quiets. Cursing once, he looks back at me, uncertainty written on his face. "The King will know of this," he mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead as though to relieve some hidden pain. "He'll probably find us within a day—or worse, destroy the Varden in his search." He shakes his head again, raising his head to stare emptily at the rising sun. I nudge his back encouragingly, the stone clicking very lightly against my teeth.

___Eragon, worry not about him. We are free now, aren't we? And—_I pause to shift the edge in my mouth slightly—___we have the egg. Come—let's go. _

"Go where?" he asks dryly. "The Varden? Sure, lead him straight to them and then have him come pillage them all. Just innocents to be slaughtered, they are, if we return. No."

I stare at him oddly, vaguely perturbed by his sudden callousness. ___We've no choice, Eragon. Perhaps he won't follow us. _

"Perhaps," he snorts. I growl in response, the green dragon shying away from us.

___What has he done to you? _I demand. Abruptly, his expression goes blank, his bitterness retreating. He dully drops his hand to his side, comes to a halt by my side. He doesn't meet my eyes—rather, he stares right through me, as though looking through to someone else. With a shake of his head, he returns to himself, looking at me in silent bewilderment.

"I don't know," he murmurs finally, and I can sense the honesty there. A trace of uncertainty—and even a hint of fear—lingers there, though I allow it to pass. Instead, I open my jaws slightly wider, silently proffering him the stone. He wordlessly accepts it, ignoring the slick saliva coating. "Should we even bother?" he asks with a heavy sigh, watching the sun illuminate the city. I shrug a shoulder, nudging him toward my back with my snout. When he doesn't respond, I lower my wing, blocking his view, and gently shove him toward my back.

___Yes, _I assert, taking the green hatchling's egg again as he slowly crawls up onto my back. Saddle-less, true, but still able to be ridden, if more uncomfortable. ___We have a duty to those people, Eragon. This is certainly no time to be forsaking them. _

"Duty," he laughs, accepting the stone once more as I give it to him. "You might as well just speak clearly, Saphira. We return to our own slavery—trapped in bonds and sworn by oaths and fealties."

___Now you sound like a servant of Galbatorix, _I growl. He flinches, balancing the egg on one arm while gripping a neck spike in the other hand. Swaying slightly, his gaze loses focus once more, though I shake my wings to draw his attention. ___All right, _I say, ___enough. Hold on—it'll be a rough ride. _

"You're telling me," he mutters, though the teasing seems to have lightened him somewhat. Crouching, I spread my wings wide, sparing a last furtive glance at Urû'baen. I reach out with my mind, though a barrier—wrought deep with some antiquity—shuts me out, preventing me contact with even the simplest of people there. With a determined nod, I leap up into the sky, the ecstatic motion overriding my worry for an instant.

___Why no alarms? _I wonder absently as I steer away from the dark city. ___Why? _

0

"Is that all you can do? Snap your teeth and snarl?"

******Thorn**

I pant, lost in the darkness, lost in the scarlet haze of pain, lost in the grayness of doom. My breath whooshes out of me, a malevolent laugh accompanying the crack of a whip as it singes my side. I lash out in protest, snaring something briefly before it is torn away and again the whip lands. "Is that all you can do?" the dark voice trills, "Snap your teeth and snarl?" Again, the sharp bite, and again, my determination surrendering to cries of mercy.

And then I sink below, into a cool wave of blackness, the world throbbing in distant undertones. My joints ache from their restraints against a wall, pinioned and bared to the cynical ravaging of the King. My wings sorely hang, my entire body throbbing in broken unison. A particularly sharp jolt returns me brutally to reality, allowing me the full effect of a broken rib. I hiss, head drooping pitiably and eyes barely slits as I glare at him. He mercilessly brings the whip down again, a dark black shadow seated dutifully in one corner, somehow visible. Our gazes meet for a moment and I see that Black Dragon for what he truly is—a coward.

My senses blur again, my own ragged pulse the only sound in my ears, coppery blood seeming to drain away from my mouth as my vision fails me. My pants come out in coughing wheezes, always seeming to take away more air than they replenish in the next breath. I sink, lower and lower, drowning in my pain and misery, hoping that perhaps if I am not forcibly surfaced I might just be lost to that merciful darkness.

But no, again the pain steals me to consciousness, making me aware of every lash scoring my hide, numbering only seven. I snort feebly, blood spattering from my nostrils. Unable to stand or support myself in anyway, I lean heavily against the wall, denied the reprieve to lie down. The whip strikes again at my weakness and, unable to summon the strength to withhold myself, I roar, the sound laced with blood that clogs my throat.

___Let me die, _I plead whatever Heavens or Hells that may or may not exist. ___Let it end. _

Yet I am alone. The Black Dragon does not intervene—merely turns his head away, almost in disgust. Turns a blind eye to me, allows the beating to go on nevertheless. I snarl pathetically at him, snapping my jaws venomously as I yell, ___Coward! _The whip cracks down again, the pain so great white overwhelms my vision. For a moment I am overjoyed—surely death has come to grant me mercy.

And then it darkens, revealing the cell once more, and throwing me back into my mangled body again.

The King does not speak—never does he speak to me during beatings. Jeering, he says, is pointless and encourages them to fight back. Sadly, I realize the truth of these words, for no matter the anger within me, I can muster the will to do no more than simmer. Twice more the whip strikes—twice more I cry out without wanting to.

Shaking from exertion, of muscles tensed and wings taut, I growl from my spot against the wall, weakly extending my bloody head forward to glare down at the man. He looks at me disdainfully, somehow appear taller, and I let my head fall limply against the chains. It is left suspended mid-air, not permitted to rest at all. I groan quietly.

"Perhaps now you will learn not to lie to me," the King informs coolly. He appraises me briefly before turning and striding calmly out of the cell, leaving me no more comment than that. I raise my head slightly to glance at the dark mass still watching from one corner, head turned away. After a long, painfully quiet moment, he turns to look at me, fixing me with a pair of unreadable eyes, before following dutifully the King, leaving through the invisible passage I could never discover.

The door thunders to a close behind him, the light clicking of claws on marble departing.

Silence—dreadful, ___awful _quiet follows, and I find it intolerable as the pain adjusts and settles to a bearable level. A soft moan of despair escapes me—so now even the brief comfort of unconsciousness shall be denied to me. Loneliness, deep and true, encircles me, and I do the only thing I can think of in my destroyed state.

___Murtagh, _I croak, even wearied in mental voice. Silence reigns here as well, though I press on determinedly. ___Murtagh…_

Wandering like a child in tatters looking for his parents, I search the emptiness furtively, never once considering the futility of it. ___Murtagh, help me, _I call out softly. Nothing answers—no one hears me, I think bitterly. I give a last, wordless cry before retreating.

Alone, the quiet cell seems impossibly small, strangling the life from me slowly. I curl up as much as my new position will allow, sobbing mutely in the dark. Why? Why did she have to leave me to this forsaken cell? Why did she have to leave—just so I would be punished in her stead? Why did ___he _have to blame ___me _for it? Why could not the whisperers have ___done something_? Why did Shruikan no longer speak to me, and yet in that silence deem me a lost cause? A hopeless, worthless red dragon never meant to hatch—never should've existed—never—

The cell door suddenly opens, surprisingly quietly despite the speed. Silhouetted against the dim glow of a candle, a broad-shouldered young man stands, frozen in shock. A soft sigh of contentment slips past my jaws, though it sounds more a whimper than anything. The door closes carefully, plunging the room back into foggy darkness. Despite such, the youth finds no trouble in reaching me, two long, warm arms wrapping around my head lovingly, a cool forehead pressing against my snout. I blow a hot breath weakly, the effort rustling his shaggy brown hair slightly.

"I don't care what he says," he whispers hoarsely, "I'll never abandon you to him again."

I chuckle quietly despite myself, his rebuking stare almost playful. ___You and I both know that can't happen, _I respond. He shakes his head firmly, eyes watering at the sight of my tired, battered expression.

"I don't care," he repeats vehemently. "I don't give one d-mn of what he says anymore." He tenses abruptly, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he clings to me. I rumble unhappily, unable to do anything.

___Murtagh, _I reprimand gently, ___you can't do anything. I'm sorry I called you. _

"No!" he roars, arms fiercely keeping my snout trapped in a hug. "Were I to abandon you again, then I should die, for there is nothing in a Rider without his dragon, Thorn." I sigh quietly in disagreement and he makes a frustrated sound before shaking his head and wrapping his arms firmer around my snout, if possible. "I'm not abandoning you like that again. Not if he'll just do this."

___But you'll get punished, _I protest, my voice sounding weak even to me. He glares at me darkly.

"You get punished already while I just sit around and do nothing. Is that fair?"

___I don't want you to be punished on my behalf, _I amend quietly.

"Neither do I want you to be punished because I don't bother protect you!" he retorts fiercely. "I'm your Rider, Thorn. I'm supposed to protect you, and yet here I lounge about, only waiting around for Galbat—ah!" I stare on worriedly as he clutches his chest, breathing heavily for several moments before relaxing, holding my neck for support rather than comfort. I nudge him gently to be assured he is all right, though the effort costs me more of my dwindling strength.

___I would rather be whipped a thousand times over than know you are injured because of me, _I say tiredly. A gargled yawn escapes me and Murtagh backs away suddenly as though struck before approaching again, one hand resting on my snout reassuringly.

"Tell me at least where you are hurt now," he pleads. We look at each other, silent denial in my eyes while his are pleading. After a moment, I shake my head, though he grasps my forehead firmly in both hands, insistent. "I can't just leave you like this. You're my dragon—it isn't right for you to suffer like this."

___I am as much your dragon as the King's, _I point out dully. To that, he is silent, though defiance is written in his eyes. Slowly, he withdraws, eventually standing against the door once more.

"I will get you out of here, Thorn. If it takes forever, I will. And you will never have to be the King's dragon again," he promises. The door closes quietly behind him, and though I am no better physically, I feel infinitely restored inside. I close my eyes, too weakened to keep them open, yet unable to sleep.

Only four days had passed since the dragoness had 'disappeared', yet it felt like four years from all that had occurred. Shruikan had lost virtually all his freedom after having 'forsaken his duties' to guard the egg and make sure the dragoness didn't escape. He had claimed that he'd been attacked, though of course the King would hear none of it. As for the rest of it, life moved on—the King livid at anyone who dared come within a respectable boundary of him, and myself usually at the receiving end of his torments. No one had dared talk to me for fear of invoking the King's wrath upon themselves as well, though I didn't care.

For what good would talking serve anyway? None knew of the sacrifice I had made—even if none understood the depth of it. For admit it aloud or no, I had come to like that dragoness, perhaps more than I should've. I had come to like her enough that her absence left a lonely hole in its place—an empty space that had always been there but only then had surfaced. I had tried to convince myself it was for the better—that the ___Grey Folk _would take care of her. Yet uncertainty continues to gnaw at me even now, wondering if indeed they helped her or if they just forced her to join their ranks.

What should I care? I snort derisively to myself. I do not harbor any true affection for her, beyond that of a passing companion. Surely that is not enough to base upon any sort of tenderness. No, it is not, and I shall not treat it as so. Still, even as I dismally sink closer and closer to the darkness waiting from exhaustion, I cannot deny it in my heart, and it hurts dearly.

For if she did not escape, then my suffering is in vain—my tortures for a crime not committed. I shiver at the thought before forcing it back—forcing back the pain and the worry, submersing myself only in thoughtlessness. But, traitorously, my mind strays back, doubts resurfacing.

___You fret so much over things that are fine indeed, _a familiar voice whispers, though I cannot place it in my pain-induced stupor. Relaxing my muscles and relinquishing my hold on my thoughts, I float in the sea of darkness, imagining being something other than the King's dragon—being Murtagh's dragon instead.

A contented feeling reaches me briefly, a fleeting emotion, before horrible truth asserts itself once more.

No, I will never be with Murtagh as we are meant to be—Dragon and Rider.

For I will never survive the King in the first instance.

* * *

******Saphira **

Night had long since descended, now hovering between the very late hours of eve and very early hours of morning. Sleepily the land passes beneath us, the quiet thoughts of the hatchling rebounding lightly off my own. The tired stupor that claims him nearly lulls me to sleep as well, though I keep my wits about me enough to suppress the feelings. Eragon drowses on my back, only partly awake, holding my neck spike disinterestedly. A muffled yawn escapes him and I chuckle lightly at the sound, though he waves it off wearily.

___Look, _I point out, my joy a calm undercurrent through our mental link as I show him the lines of tents ahead—the Varden, camped at Surda once more.

___Finally, _he yawns, stretching his arms slightly. I can sense his stiffness, for though we have stopped twice daily along our journey, it has still taken us a notable amount of time to reach even this point. Eragon had complained that we should've arrived by such time, though I had commented in return that we also had to avoid detection, and thus take a wide bending route through the Hadarac rather than a straight flight southward. Still, even the unborn hatchling had resorted to wordless thoughts of complaint after the third day, though I had grown accustomed to his and Eragon's displeasures.

___Just be glad you aren't the one who has to fly us, _I admonish. He snorts once tiredly and shakes his head.

___I don't know how you do it, though I'm not sure that I really care._ He yawns again and a guttural laugh escapes me. He sits straighter upon my back to get a better viewing of the ground, wincing at the rawer skin on the inside of his thighs. Between the initial transformation he had induced to look more human and the fatigued slouch to his position, he resembles almost nothing of the elf-like human from before. I shake my head slightly at the thought before glancing down at the ground as well, watching as the landscape shifts from empty dunes to quiet tents. Sentries raise a cry of alarm, though a brief—if wearied—mental assurance from Eragon settles them and instead joyous shouts greet us as I near.

The green hatchling wriggles unhappily in the egg, confused by the sudden influx of consciousnesses around us. Pointedly ignoring him, I search for an open space, finding good landing ground roughly half a league from the tent I identify as Nasuada's. Soldiers flock to greet us, including a fairly flustered King Orrin and calculatedly calm Nasuada at his side. I land, shaking my wings slightly to clear them of dust and silently fending off any curious observers with a growl.

"Greetings again, Saphira and Eragon!" calls up King Orrin, waving a hand. I chuckle slightly and bow my head to him in greeting, my tiredness forgotten amidst the swarm of greeters. From one edge Roran stands, Katrina at his arm and leaning her head against his shoulder silently. Across from them are I recognize Eragon's old friends—Horst and Elain—as well as a bundle cradled gently in Elain's arms. She smiles benignly at us, Horst offering a grim one.

Allowing my gaze to sift through the crowd, I sort out the witch herbalist Angela, Solembum at her heel looking more bored than I can ever recall him as he holds up a basket of herbs for the eccentric woman. Standing aside them is the sorceress Trianna, arms folded mildly across her chest. She raises her chin very slightly, almost defiantly, though I ignore it.

Arms outspread, a fur-cloaked man emerges from the crowd, a broad grin covering his elegantly curved face. "Saphira Bjartskular, Eragon Shadeslayer," greets Blödhgarm, immediately given a decent amount of space amongst the others as he advances closer. I nod once to him as well and he tucks closer his fine fox-fur, oblivious to the disgusted expressions of several of the nearby elvin spell casters. They murmur amongst themselves though Nasuada silences them with a raised hand, instead looking expectantly up at me. I crouch to the ground to allow Eragon to descend, still holding dutifully the green egg.

"Greetings, Lady Nasuada, King Orrin," he says wearily, unable to fully hide his fatigue. A suppressed gasp of surprise from Nasuada—and an audible sputter from Orrin—answers him, though whether it is to his appearance or the egg he bears I cannot say. Recovering with admirable swiftness, Nasuada nods her head once, gesturing forward with a hand. Eragon hesitates. "Can we, ah, discuss this in private?" As it is, he glances around at the others, my own subtle trepidation mirrors his. We look at the stoic Varden's leader expectantly, her King companion not nearly so contained.

"The ___egg!_" he exclaims, throwing his hands up in hardly exaggerated shock. Blödhgarm cocks his head mildly from the group, crossing his arms coolly. King Orrin clasps his hands suddenly, like a child who's found a new toy to entertain himself with. "Oh this is ___wonderful!_"

"Wonderful as it is," interrupts Eragon in a stern whisper, "It is best for not everyone to know of it ___now." _He lowers his voice a notch as he adds, "Besides, we know naught of the true loyalty of our people, and openly proclaiming such invites trouble."

"Shadeslayer is wise," rumbles Blödhgarm approvingly. He holds out an arm again, as though inviting Eragon to take it. Instead, he says to the watchers, "Come; you have duties to attend, or sleep to catch up on. I'm certain Shadeslayer would prefer a moment to recuperate himself as well." Grudgingly the crowd scatters, evidently convinced not to argue with Blödhgarm's decision. The elvin spell casters linger particularly long, though a dismissive look from the animalistic elf sends them along their way as well.

"Now that we have that settled," he continues, "where shall we discuss, ah…" he gestures airily to the egg Eragon holds protectively to his chest.

"Why not my tent?" invites Angela with a laugh at our incredulous expressions as we turn to look at her. "I was kidding, you know. I would need at least a week to prepare for the disastrous mess you would make there before I'd even think to let you in my tent." She clucks her tongue disapprovingly at us, turning to the shorter boy at her side, rivaling through the contents of a herbal basket. I glance at Solembum briefly—in his shaggy black-haired boy form—one hand fondling a dagger speculatively. At my skeptical glance, he flashes a toothy smile, bearing his fangs and releasing the dagger with a clear nod of assent.

"Perhaps my tent would be the best place to meet," offers Nasuada, her voice sounding surprisingly wearied as well. I look at her closely, noticing her tired stance hidden beneath an authoritative one. Bowing my head once in consent, I glance at Orrin—practically beaming at the whole situation—before looking to Eragon. He nods once, curtly, and climbs carefully back onto my back, cringing slightly as his legs rub against the scales but clearly preferring it to walking. I straighten, nodding to Nasuada to proceed.

She strides forward, taking the lead—King Orrin close at her side, keeping up a continuous muttering to himself about anything and everything going on. I shake my head slightly to it, though he doesn't seem to notice. Blödhgarm trails along, striding along effortlessly; Angela and Solembum follow calmly without waiting for or needing invitation.

The green hatchling purrs contentedly within his shell as we move past smooth tan tents, curious Varden members peering from behind the flaps. Occasionally passing guards murmur their greetings, or a pair of Urgals cross their fist on their chests in silent greeting. Nasuada ghosts through the encampment, seemingly unnoticed by all, while King Orrin talks to nearly every passerby we come across. Having had enough Angela catches up to him talking with a pair of younger men, grabbing him unceremoniously by the shirt collar and dragging him forward, ignoring his indignant protests. Blödhgarm chuckles at the display, Solembum following with his usual impassivity.

The werecat shifts back into his cat-form, padding along near soundlessly after us, before halting abruptly. I pause with him, watching as he sniffs the air, meowing uncharacteristically. ___What's wrong? _I ask. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, stretching lazily.

___Something's wrong? _he repeats, tone almost bored. ___I was just yawning. _

Shaking my head, I move to follow Nasuada, a sharp hiss escaping Solembum before the ___twang_ of an arrow is shot off. A low grunt comes from on my back, followed by sharp pain in my left shoulder. ___Eragon! _I cry in dismay, Solembum leaping ahead daringly. In three great bounds he clears the distance between himself and the archer, seizing the hand gripping the bow in a punishing grip. King Orrin bustles back toward us, shock and horror written almost theatrically on his face. Blurriness fights at my vision, clouding over as warm blood spills down my shoulder, soaking my tunic.

The green hatchling chirrups unhappily and I growl in frustration before craning my neck back—trusting Solembum to handle the attacker—and seizing Eragon carefully in my jaws, grasping him by the back of his tunic. He moans quietly as I place him on the ground before me, Blödhgarm appearing almost instantly at my side. The tall elf moves efficiently, crouching beside my injured Rider and grasping the arrow lodged in his shoulder. With a swift jerk, he dislodges it, a sharp grunt escaping Eragon in turn. He reaches up a hand, grasping Blödhgarm's wrist tightly for a moment before letting his hand fall limply back. The animal-like elf spares him a brief glance before checking the arrow more carefully, deeming it untainted after a moment and discarding it.

"Now what has the blockhead gotten himself into now?" muses Angela as she moves to stand beside Blödhgarm, shaking her head disapprovingly. I can feel the sting of the arrow wound as though it were my shoulder that were harmed, as well as a keen distaste for any sort of mockery at the moment. I growl at the herbalist warningly, the message clear. A faintly grateful thought reaches me, though I silently assure that it is simply what I should do. The witch doesn't speak, rather moves over to see who Solembum has successfully rendered senseless the one who attacked. "Oh dear," she says, unusually dismayed. I glance over to see her carefully hoist up the unconscious body of a young girl, a bow falling limply from her hands. Burned into her brow is a silvery circlet, and the knowing look to her face is chilling even with her eyes closed.

"Elva," observes the witch mildly. "Expected, I suppose, she would take revenge on the blockhead at some point."

"Is she dead?" Blödhgarm asks, voice a low rumble as he lends Eragon his shoulder, slipping one of his arms around it. I shy away from the thought of standing, groaning as Blödhgarm hauls me to my feet anyway. Shaking my head slightly to clear Eragon's thoughts, I watch as a slight crowd gathers around us, Nasuada holding the green egg protectively as Blödhgarm supports Eragon.

"Not dead," the witch replies eventually. "Merely knocked out. Shouldn't wake up with more than a bruise."

"Should she wake up at all," King Orrin puts in, surprisingly grave. We all turn to him briefly. "She tried to murder our only Rider—a crime that has been well-known amongst the Varden as punishable by hanging. Should not we uphold this?"

Silence reigns, doubtful looks from Solembum and Angela speaking volumes. And yet Nasuada simply nods, calm as ever. "It is law of the Varden that Eragon shall not be harmed—if this law is broken, we must uphold it." She nods, seeming to steel herself to the cause. Eragon sends me a pleading glance, the mental wanting to just lie down and rest coming to mind. I can sense all his pains as my own for a moment—the slight chafing to his legs, the raw and stinging wound in his shoulder, the throbbing headache from exhaustion, the soreness in his limbs from traveling.

___Can we discuss this in the morning? _I request, glancing at Nasuada specifically.___ Both Eragon and myself are wearied from travel, and neither of us are really in the condition to hold a meeting. _

"Yes," agrees Blödhgarm. "Tomorrow would be a finer time than now, anyway. And then we may solve this new problem of this girl—Elva, you say? Well, tomorrow we can figure this out." He carefully supports Eragon to my side, making sure he has a good hold onto one of my neck spikes before stepping back. He bows with a flourish. "Good evening to you, Bjartskular and Shadeslayer, and I shall see you in the morning. Well," he observes mirthlessly, glancing up at the sky, "later today, I suppose." And with that, he departs, striding off into the camp wordlessly.

___Can we… please just find somewhere to rest? _asks Eragon wearily. I can feel the effort it costs him even to speak.

___Is there anywhere for us to stay? _I ask in turn, addressing Nasuada once more. She smiles grimly.

"For the moment, hardly. We've had difficultly maintaining supplies as of late, and so quarters have been short. But for the moment, you're welcome to my tent." She cradles the egg almost lovingly to her, though a protective aura lingers over her as she holds it.

___That would be most kind of you, Nasuada, _I say, speaking for both of us. Wordlessly, the young woman approaches, offering Eragon her shoulder. He hesitates before accepting, leaning heavily against her as she directs them into a tent not a dozen yards away. I follow slowly, Angela and Solembum hanging back to deal with Elva in whatever way. King Orrin mutters unhappily to himself, undecided, before moving off in a different direction to attend some other duty.

Nasuada leads Eragon to one of the pallets in the room, seating him on it despite his groggy protests. Head bowing down to his chest, Eragon stares at the floor blearily, casting me a sideways glance before sagging onto his uninjured side on the pallet. In moments I can sense him deeply asleep, Nasuada taking a seat quietly at the table occupying the main part of the room.

"So tell me," she begins, casting a taciturn glance at Eragon, "How have you come to obtain the green dragon egg?"

0

'___If you fear who you leave behind, then you prove yourself nothing but a coward. And we do not help cowards.'_

******Thorn**

My eyes stray across a dark indigo night.

Cool water laps at my feet, barely above my ankles yet still chilling as a sheet of frost over me. Smoke wisps lightly around me, shrouding my view of this sleepy world. My nose twitches hungrily at the scent of fresh meat that offers its sweet smell tauntingly to the wind. Saliva gathers in my mouth though I swallow it back; even here I can recognize the illusion of food. My gaze shifts to my left side, flanked by dark waters that lead off endlessly. A hazy horizon glowers dully with azure, traces of gray tempting the sun from its resting place. Groggily it rises, casting awkward golden lines into the barren land.

A tight nestle of trees huddle off to one side, barricading me from their inner reaches as effectively as any castle. I sniff hopefully in their direction, though only the piney scent of junipers reaches me. Brush congregates around their thick trunks, close and crouched over one another like children trading secrets. Overhead, I sense the rustling of leaves, though no swallows or owls greet me. Questing out, I feel the lifelessness of a desert there, and I turn my attentions to a ragged shadow illuminated on the opposite side.

Craggy rocks rise from the lackluster ground, providing ample shade and hiding place for one to use. The smaller stones jut out in the shadows of the larger ones, forming a structure near large enough to be called a cliff. From inside, the quiet muttering of the water beneath me—evidently streaming off to become a short river—flows. I nose after it slowly, steps tentative in the water as it grows both hotter and cooler at once. Pausing only yards away, I squint at a flash of light that passes between two of the rocks, though when I search I find nothing.

I start forward again.

A light splash brushes up against my left hind leg, startling me back slightly. My wings tilt back in a more threatening position, easily thrown out for flight. Jaw loosening slightly, I allow my sizeable front teeth to be shown, a challenging rumble issuing from my throat.

I wait, the sun making its sluggish ascent off in the distance. Instead of lightening the area in the golden-bronze typical of a sunrise, it instead offers a new cerulean tone to the watery land, revealing small ripples marring its surface as well as greater detail along the trees and rocks. I notice that no true distance separates them, aside from an ominous-looking crevice between them. The water pools down into it fearlessly, a sharp descent clear from the quiet shushing sound of a distant waterfall. I lower my guard very briefly to quest outward, though the trees, shrubs, and mosses are the only thing alive here.

My steps are slightly more confident on this knowing as I move towards the rocks, a semi-circle connected to the trees many yards away. An open stretch of water—wide and long enough to be an ocean—splays out before me, and no matter which way I turn, the light somehow manages to reflect its surface, baring me to the world. Instinctively I seek the quiet shelter of the large boulders, gliding through the water wordlessly.

I whirl around—a moment too late—as a purposeful ___smack _splashes me from behind. My muscles tighten reflexively, legs dropping into a crouch as I lever for a lunge.

A bemused rumble halts me, my eyes widening in surprise as I swing my head to the right. Almost immediately, another splash greets me, this time washing over my face. Halted chuckles surround me as I shake my head quickly, growling in irritation.

Suspicion returns to me a moment later and, just as I sink again into my crouch, determined to capture them, the being vanishes. I glare in their direction, tromping purposefully after them through the water. It sloshes around my feet, a rich navy in color, yet it doesn't slow nor sound at the other's presence. I redouble my pace, nearly a trot as I follow their tracks in the water, unable to see them in the semi-darkness.

With sudden clarity, the trees reveal themselves before me, as sternly rebuking as a parent stepping before a child pursuing someone who they are chasing in a game of tag. My disgruntlement doesn't move them in the slightest; a light breeze further mocks me as it moves easily past them, the rustling of their leaves like giggling. Even there I see not the usual emerald and jade combination, but rather a beatific mixing of sapphire and cerulean. The veins of the leaves stand out as clearly as the hollows in their trunks, my thoughts briefly drifting to the stunning beauty of such a thing.

Another splash rouses me, this time slapping my side playfully as I turn to see. A shadowy figure darts around a corner, surprisingly swift for their evident size. I growl, crouching before leaping clear over the short distance, plunging straight into the darkness of the crevice.

My wings flail helplessly as I fall, water roaring at my left side as my paws scrabble around uselessly. Darkness is everywhere, though the narrowness of the crevice is evident as my wings are pressed tightly together. Plunging downward like a dart, I fall through darkness, indigo slithering down the sides of the waterfall beside me.

Something snags my left wing, my whole body jerking with the force as I smack against the side of the black—faintly blue—walls, a grunt escaping me. Water drips off my sides in steady streams, the joint connecting my wing to my shoulder screeching with pain. I growl low, shaking myself once in a futile attempt to free myself. Hot blood stains my wings as I hiss sharply, struggling harder. Eventually the stony gap relinquishes me to gravity, which rapidly tugs me downward.

It seems an eternity passes of falling, falling endlessly through the pitch-blackness, broken only but hints of blue. Above me, a light circlet of blue glows, a dragon head silhouetted against it. Before I can even so much as call out a question or a rebuke, water encompasses me once more.

I sink, legs pumping frantically as the waterfall pounds me down into submission, lungs screaming for air as every molecule is driven from my chest. I squirm beneath the foamy-blue water, darkness tickling the edges of my consciousness. Words flood my mind as my struggling slows, slows to become nothing more than a faint warring against the water.

'Look at him—the King's servant finally shown!'

'Worthless dog—come down and fight us!'

'Coward, hiding in the skies… look at the beast on his back, flinging his sword around… bah!'

'Death to you! Death to you and your rider!'

'Bleed, bleed for the pain you inflict on this world, for everything you have done!'

A strangled groan escapes me, cut off by the water that floods willingly into my mouth, the muted cries of someone above me distracting my thoughts briefly. ___The battle, _I muse darkly, mind expanding upon the hundreds of vile curses and names they cried at Murtagh and I as we took off. If I drown here, I think sourly, I won't ever face another battle.

'A rat is a more competent servant than you, and a pebble holds more value to me than you do. How kind I am to keep you alive at all.'

'Were it my choice I would have you both hung for such a failure, but I suppose it is not in fate's way.'

'Why are you such an insolent hatchling? Do you not understand that I keep you alive out of mercy, not need? No, I have Shruikan for that, and for you I require only one task. And yet you fail me, fail me forever and ever. How bored I grow of your failures, Thorn.'

My lungs weakly supply me the breath to snarl at the King's words, the pounding of the water still dimly raining down upon me. I twist in its grasp, barely mustering the energy to do so, yet my efforts are in vain. I wonder dourly if the bottom is as far below as the fall was.

'Leave me—leave me you stupid hatchling!'

'Why? Why did you hatch for me? Couldn't you have had the sense to have hatched for someone who wasn't just fated to die? Don't whimper at me; this is all your fault!'

'If I weren't a Rider I would be dead, not some puppet tortured at his tyrant's whim. Do you hate me that much? Do you hate me ___that much_ that you couldn't have just hatched for someone else? That you couldn't have just let me the mercy of death? Apparently I must hate you as well for having cursed you to the same fate.'

My heart burns with shame and guilt as I think of Murtagh's early words to me. How I think of the way he would sob and screech them in equal parts at me, never once allowing me a moment to offer apology. Sometimes, I remember, they were accompanied with fruitless kicks and curses, venting he claims to have later regretted. Still, a cynical part of me insists, who would blame him for hating me?

Something suddenly grasps my neck, warmth infusing my body like an elixir. I surrender willingly to its heat, the light tugging of strong jaws dragging me along for an uncountable time in the water. My lungs wheeze and sputter helplessly, starved of oxygen and desperate for air as I force myself not to breathe. Air, I promise myself, will come soon if I wait. It must.

It must.

And just as that, it does, my head bursting from the surface cleanly. I cough and choke, water lacing the first couple breaths I dare take. The thundering of the waterfall echoes against the stony blue walls, a continuous assault on the water surrounding me. It is notably deeper than the ankle-deep water from before, though I manage to remain afloat in it.

I take in several more deep breaths, calming the earlier panic of drowning, and glance around, eyes slightly unfocused and strained in the darkness. A spark of determination renews itself within me as I catch sight of the shadow, undoubtedly the one who saved me. I splash around, trying to figure out how to move in this too-deep water, my efforts only exhausting me. I pant, claws searching the water for purchase. Nothing. Despair creeps over me, my will wavering as I consider just sinking below again.

The shadow glides toward me, slinking through the water effortlessly, tail a rudder against the waterfall's fierce current. My legs kick in tired motions, treading water awkwardly. The shadow brightens as it nears, standing out in sharp contrast against the darkness. The shady outlines of a dragon become evident, the hearty breaths smooth and calm. A dragoness, I realize abruptly, from the sinuous curves of their—her—neck and shoulders, as well as the sleekness to her chest and legs.

Shadows darken her face, though a sapphire hue quickly lightens on her figure. I reel back slightly in surprise. No. It cannot be… ___her, _can it?

Her eyes bore into me pensively, forever thoughtful and almost cold, yet also tinted with mild curiosity. I flounder as a swift rush of water snags me from below, my worried cries not daunting her in the slightest as she continues her smooth approach. The moment before I ready myself to sink beneath the water her teeth grasp my neck, holding me upward effortlessly. Her muscles clench, though rather than strain I sense strength there. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the warmth of her jaws clasped lightly around my neck, before opening them again.

I am lying in the shallow puddle of the plain, the trees and rocks only a distant outline from here. Ripples course gently over the water's surface, though I pay them no heed as I stand slowly, warily. Shaking my head, I turn toward the sun, mid-way in the sky. It glows a brilliant white, standing out in pleasant contrast to the bluish-white sky. Around me I glimpse only that; blue. It draws me nearer, tempts me to just lye down in the waters beneath me and doze, or to sprawl in the gentle azure shade of the trees or rocks. Such temptations nearly cause me to move, though through fierce determination I turn away from them to where I know the dragoness was before.

To my disappointment, she is not, though a broad grin crosses my face as a tail slaps water, a cool splash grazing my side once more. Instead of immediately turning to confront her, though, I bring down my tail onto the water, a playful splash leaping up. She starts, shaking herself quickly to clear it, before snorting once, an amused glint in her eyes. I raise my tail again, though she dodges to my left, instead getting me with a splash. Gracelessly, I turn toward her, my efforts earning me a splash in the face. A guttural laugh bursts from me despite myself and I lunge forward, crashing into her joyously.

She nips at my neck in a mock-strike and I swat her away gently, shouldering past her as she snags my tail and drags me down again. I wriggle out from around her, snorting in mock-disappointment. In response, she crouches, and before I can even think to duck aside she plows into me, sending us both toppling into the cold water. Though shallow, it still manages to drench us both as we shove and nip and splash each other, our wings both tilted back though in play rather than challenge. Her steps—surprisingly nimble—keep her at bay from me, though I manage to catch her by surprise twice.

'You're fast,' I comment, in the same voiceless tone of a dream. I forcefully place the thought aside, though it nags at me reprovingly.

She chuckles slightly as she smugly releases my neck from her hold. Rather than answering, though, she darts over to one side, her eyes glimmering with spirit. Our gazes meet for a moment, the same playful joy reflecting there, before she leaps upward, evading me as I find myself unable to follow. A mock-groan escapes me, though instead of returning to continue our play-fighting, as I expect, she disappears, the sun bloating out the blue until it is only a muzzy image. The world around me falls away, revealing only a misty cerulean in its place. I whine low, disappointed.

Stepping from the new darkness, however, she stands, my mouth agape. Despite the obviousness that it is her, surprise courses through me as I stare at her. Everything of her is the same, yet somehow very different. Rather than playful, her entire demeanor radiates tranquility, as well as acceptance. Just looking at her sends a shiver down my spine and she tilts her head back questioningly. I respond by making a tentative step forward; she doesn't move. I close the distance between us, our gazes meeting, not a hint of doubt there. I reach forward to intertwine our necks and she surrenders hers, allowing me to do so. A quiet hum echoes from her, my eyes closing in contentment, determined to hold this perfect moment for as long as memory will allow.

And when I open them again, she is gone, as is my perfect world. Instead, the bleakness of my cell stands in its place. Perhaps the most depressing experience one may having is awakening from a pleasurable one, for I know naught what would have been more disappointing than to see that it was nothing more than a dream. I sigh heavily, the chains rattling against my shoulders as I shift. The same angry scars seethe across them, and as I turn toward the rest of my cell—half-expecting her to reappear—my spirits are further doused by the emptiness.

What makes the attraction of blue so potent? I wonder as I settle my head against the wall, a heavy breath whooshing out of me. For surely this torture must be lethal, and yet I would torture myself a thousand-fold over to experience it just once more. It is wrong to be so fanatical over someone I cannot have, I remind myself, yet no rational thought can completely erase the utter pleasure of being with her. Nothing can, I know.

I close my eyes and quest after my dragoness once more.

* * *

******Saphira **

The tent morphs into a prison cell, the reverse effect of darkening illuminating a shadowy figure in one corner. Nasuada's troubled form, half-crouched over the table in thought, eyes staring listlessly at the table… thin tarp-like material ruffling along the tents edges… grunts and rough curses from the Kull guards… a faintly pained thought, radiating the red-hot sting of a shoulder amiss… all slips away, revealing only the grayness of a cell.

Sleeping in one corner with tail tucked tightly around his left side is Thorn, shackles weighing heavily down on his legs and wings. A melancholic aura lingers around him as he twitches and pants in the throes of sleep. Angry scarlet stripes stand out in remarkable contrast against the paled scales coating his sides, bespeaking in themselves agony. I flinch slightly, the miserable expression that crosses his face drawing me back to look at him. The rusted metal digs thin ruts into his flesh where it touches, the ones around his face particularly brutal. I turn to look away, only to be met by a penetratingly clear face.

___If you fear who you leave behind, then you prove yourself nothing but a coward. And we do not help cowards, _informs the stony dragon, snout hardly twitching as he breathes, slowly and deeply. His eyes reflect a rich beige, the color escaping the gray's overpowering hold. I shiver slightly at the severity there, the cold stone walls dropping away to lighten on the calm tent walls once more.

"Saphira?" Nasuada inquires, looking at me with an expression torn between concerned and confused. I shake my head slowly to her, mutely staring back. Eventually she concedes and looks downward briefly, one hand lightly resting on the egg's shell, as though seeking solace. A worried frown appears faintly on her lips, noticeable as well in the crease to her brow. She shakes her head, mulling, and my thoughts unwind just enough to allow me to see the vague outline of the hazy red dragon.

"So you believe," she continues, decidedly ignoring my silence, "that the Grey Folk were the ones who freed you?"

I nod once slowly.

"And that they are under Galbatorix's power?"

Another nod.

She folds her hands over the egg, contemplative. The prison returns to my sight, though as I move to look away and return to the tent, I find myself surrounded entirely by the insubstantial image. My claws dig uneasily into the ground, my entire body jerking as hard stone screeches silently beneath them. I lurch upright, head rebounding painfully back against the wall. I shake my wings internally in a vain effort to free them, though physically I don't even flinch aside from the ragged breaths that swell in my chest. My eyes stare wildly outward, scanning the cell against my own thoughts.

As naturally as taking a breath before plunging into water, we merge, our consciousnesses mingling. An anonymous air surrounds us, cloaking our real identities to the other, and we slowly relax back against the chains, our heart still thundering in our chests. We strive to calm it with deep, slow breaths, eventually convincing ourselves that we are alone. A dreadfully lonely feeling replaces the anxious one a moment later, echoing in our hearts. But this… this is our life, we accept grudgingly. And loneliness is just another part of it.

We sigh, laying our head down upon our paws, and the contact between us fades as smoothly and quietly as it began. My mind aches to comfort the being, though at the same time my mind screams out in protest. "Saphira…?" a voice queries, seeming many leagues away. My thoughts drift back to the solitary figure, the pains that we shared, the intimacy so deep naming each other would've been a fruitless and wasteful task. We were one in that moment; what mattered who we were?

And yet, cruelly, my conscience prods me with thoughts of 'you know who it is' and 'lying to yourself?' I know I lie to myself in saying the contact was mutually ignorant, I wish to snap in retort, though instead I drag myself to attention as Nasuada's distraught gaze focuses on me. I lift my head suddenly from its position on my paws, ruffling my wings in a surprisingly sheepish gesture. She looks at me queerly, and I return her gaze but a moment before letting it fall upon the green egg. No, I dismiss, it couldn't have been him. Not Thorn.

I glance at Eragon's bandaged shoulder, a frown crossing my face. When was that tended? Surely not before we entered, and not when I reiterated our journey to Nasuada… as silently as a fox, Blödhgarm sits in the far left corner, legs crossed casually in their cottony shoes. Light black breeches hug his legs, a dazzling red shirt overlapped by a flowing cloak of black. The attire seems oddly dark on him, though also startlingly animalistic, even feral. Accompanied by a seemingly pleasant smile, it radiates something akin to threatening.

I turn to regard him more fully, though my attention is subtly commanded back to Nasuada as she clears her throat, looking at me expectantly. I look at her in dutiful silence. "We wondered when you would awaken," she murmurs, voice quiet. My ears strain to hear her over the faint muttering of water dripping down a cold cell wall… "You didn't sleep, really," she elaborates. "Just became very… "

"Detached could be a word for it," supplies Blödhgarm helpfully. I continue to look at Nasuada, secretly demanding more. Yet she shrugs her shoulders helplessly.

"I won't ask," she concedes, though a look tells me that the same mercy will not be granted twice.

___How long was I… unaware? _I ask slowly.

Blödhgarm folds his hands mildly atop his legs; Nasuada's frown deepens almost imperceptibly. "Only an hour or so," she finally answers, albeit grudgingly. My interest flares up, my stance straightening.

___An hour? _I repeat incredulously, staring at her. The fox-like elf is the one to respond, however.

"You wouldn't respond to anything… we even tried to rouse you with magic, though you were… untouchable?" He seems to struggle for words, a rare thing from the time I'd known the bizarre elf. "Nevertheless, I tended to your Rider," here he waves a hand in Eragon's direction, "And Nasuada informed me of what you told her."

I resist the urge to glare at Nasuada, reminding myself that I have no right to be mad at her for relating such information to him. Besides, the logical part of me argues, he would have learned eventually, and it is best for him to be told such rather than discover it on his own. The last thing, I know, the Varden would need would be a mutiny over a simple conflict such as that.

"Saphira?" the Varden's leader interrupts my thoughts, a shade of worry in her voice. I tilt my head at her, proving my awareness with a curt nod. "Blödhgarm and I managed to discuss another topic you might be interested in," she continues, heedless of my wandering thoughts. "That of Elva's betrayal."

I look to the elf, suspecting perhaps differing opinions, though his reflects nothing but impassivity. His jaw, however, clenches infinitesimally, a gesture not unmissed by myself. I look back at Nasuada.

___And what have you decided? _I prompt when neither speak.

"Execution," answers Nasuada, voice void of emotion. Her hands wring slightly over the egg, a distressed thought radiating from the unborn hatchling as he senses her dismay. I attempt to calm him, though the thought of Thorn's utter loneliness of before overshadows the gesture and I cannot find the heart to soothe him.

___Why? _I find myself asking, knowing it has nothing to do of Nasuada and Blödhgarm's judgment.

**Chapter end notes:**

So. Couple of things. One this is the ___fifth _time I've written a chapter and trashed it for this, so I've finally settled on this as the best of them. I understand it's not the best but I did my best. *shrug* Second is that the late update is due to schoolwork and a vacation I recently took, so updates will be quicker after this. Hope you enjoyed! ;) And thank you very very much to all readers/reviewers. Much appreciated.

0

'___Hide behind your words what you know is true.'_

* * *

******Thorn**

"Pay attention."

I look up slowly, face showing nothing but misery. A disgusted look returns mine, so I lower my head in easy submission. So far this has gone on for roughly an hour or so, though I lost track after the first quarter-hour. Perhaps it is better to simply let time pass than record it, I reason. Recording time just leads to divisions in time, and divisions in time only shorten your perspective of it. I close off my thoughts stubbornly, allowing only emptiness to fill them instead. I think much like a human, I reflect sourly, remembering Shruikan's comment many weeks ago on such. He always referred to it as a flaw of mine—that by thinking as a human I would only inherit their greediness, their terrible need to expend time as though it were a dish to be consumed. No, he warned me, I mustn't think like that.

"Look at me." A note of irritation rings clear in his voice as I slowly bring my gaze back to meet his. I sigh resignedly. If he wishes to play such games on mannerisms, then I shall play them. I set myself firmly to this thought, though my right shoulder twinges painfully as several nerves tighten within it. My flinch displeases him, for moments later my left shoulder goes numb. I lose my balance, staggering, before surrendering to an awkward kneel as my opposite shoulder fails me as well. "You will learn to act courteously toward me, Thorn." Another sharp pain in my right shoulder—more nerves tighten. There is no question there; I offer no opposition.

The King's smirk lingers on sadistic as he adds nonchalantly, "Though, if you fail to learn, your death will matter not to me."

___What do you want of me? _I ask hollowly, voice coming out as a sigh. I leave my head bowed, tip of my jaw brushing the cool marble.

A chuckle of genuine amusement reaches me and I resist a grimace as he applies throbbing pressure against the back of my skull. "Must I have a reason for summoning you now?"

___My King, _interrupts a voice. I turn my head fractionally to glance over at the undefined shadow in the corner, marked only by the faint glow of torches along the opposite side. Shruikan rumbles disapprovingly, though at a twitch of the King's hand he rises and comes forth. I can sense his austerity as he bows his head to the man, meeting him eye-to-eye as I wouldn't dare. Their conversation is obvious, if mute, and the mental warring between the two is undeniable. It seems that rather than a debate it is a grating of two forces, stress building between them constantly. For a moment pity enters my gaze as I look to Shruikan, though it turns cold as I look at how his expression mellows, revealing only placid silence. __

___Traitor, _I snap at him in a whisper, not daring speak louder for fear of drawing the King's attention. Despite such, he looks as well, both their black gazes staring at me with the same mirroring disapproval… and hatred. I clamp my jaws tightly against a snarl in return, even as Shruikan staggers back a step, his eyes adopting a confused look.

___So you summon us for petty torture? _I accuse, too outraged to not speak up.

"Torture?" scoffs the King before laughing once. "This is not torture, Thorn. This is discipline. If Shruikan acts against me, I discipline him, just as I discipline you."

___Hide behind your words what you know is true, _rebukes Shruikan, a sense of hope kindling within me at his daring. The moment the King's stare locks onto him, however, he shies away, his wings folding at his sides. An unmistakable growl rumbles in his chest as he stands nearer the shadows, stance far less confident than I had ever seen it before. It nearly sickens me to see how easily the respect is bought through fear, how his shoulders hunch forward as though to stave off a blow and his tail curls around his side protectively. This is not the same dragon of five days ago, I know. Certainly not.

"Good dragon," applauds the King theatrically, clapping in mock-sincerity. I only just catch myself from leaping before him, my wings still aching at my sides as they lay there limply. I glower instead, though Shruikan offers no opposition but a cool stare. Smiling wolfishly, the King paces slowly before us, observing us as though we are dogs to be beaten at his pleasure. Which, in a way, we are. Shruikan looks at me, eyes speaking his disagreement for him. He turns his head back to the King, as do I.

"You are both incompetent in your own ways," he lectures casually, never once pausing in his pace. "You," a lazy finger lifts to point accusingly at Shruikan, "lose any and all prized possessions in my care. And you," he glances pointedly at me, "fail at any and all tasks I assign you. So what, dare I ask, am I supposed to do with two incompetent dragons?"

Both Shruikan and I linger on snappish retorts, though our simmering manages to stave off an outright shouting match. ___Perhaps, my King, you should accuse less of our incompetence and rather set us to tasks we can handle, _offers Shruikan, albeit grudgingly.__

"Tasks you can handle?" laughs the King mockingly. "Oh, if I could ___find _a task you could handle that would be a fine day indeed." He snorts once derisively, though Shruikan bows his head. "I could assign you to watch a rock and you'd fail. I ___did _assign you to watch a rock and you failed." Shruikan's lip curls up in a snarl, though the King ignores it. "Discipline does not improve either of your behavior," he continues, to both our glares, "and no other techniques I have set you with have kept you in line. What must I do to get it through your thick heads that failure is not an option?"

___Apparently it is, _mutters Shruikan.

"Even now you dare to defy me," the King remarks, too calm. "Even now, when you know that with a simple word I could end both your lives, you dare to mock me with such words?"

___Ending our lives would be a mercy, _I muse absently.

"Silence!" he roars. I moan stiffly as my jaw goes lax, hanging openly as I cannot control the muscles there. My legs sink to the floor, though I notice from the corner of my eyes Shruikan's head tossed back, teeth clenched, claws driven hard against the cold floor as he fights off some internal pain. The quiet screeching of the marble against them is sickening, though I refrain from shouting for him to stop. The King smiles on coolly, unperturbed by his own dastardly arts.

"Dastardly?" he chuckles, looking to me with an eyebrow raised. My neck screams with pain as it is forced to bow forward further, brow pressed against the floor. I snarl once piteously in defiance though he only chuckles coldly at me. "You both disappoint me," he says, sweat filming Shruikan's face and limbs. His front legs quiver very slightly with strain, wings and muscles taut evidently. "Cannot you even stand on your own?" Shruikan staggers back as though buffeted by a wind, back hitting the stone wall with a dull ___thud._

A shapeless howl bursts from him as a circlet of red springs to life over his chest, each a puncture wound no smaller than a horse's hoof. His face contorts into a look of suppressed agony as he slips down to the floor, a soft moan escaping him as more holes walk up and down his shoulders and across his back. Soon he is near covered in them as they track over his face, two appearing just above and below each eye.

___Stop it! _I roar at the King, beyond outraged. Shruikan looks at me, turning his great head slowly to observe me. The red marks do not bleed out at all, though it is clear that they dig several inches into his flesh. As I look at him, sudden realization overcomes me. I blink once, and the red spots are gone, though the same unbearable pain radiates from him. I shut off my mind to him grudgingly, his breath wheezing from him as he struggles under the King's invisible torture. I close my eyes, silently pleading for him to be quiet so I don't have to think about it. I open my eyes once more, just in time to see the red marks burn particularly hot, glowing like dozens—perhaps hundreds—of brands.

Nothing could, nor ever would, have erased the sound of his scream from my memory.

He collapses, exhausted, as the marks cool tantalizingly slowly before retreating with the same prolonging torture. I wish to rush over to him myself and rip off those holes, though I know it is only the King's trick to make me see that which he does despite its insubstantiality. Still, I know with some certainty, it could not have been worse to have watched Shruikan be branded before me, those glowing scarlet holes driven into his flesh.

"That," remarks the King dryly, "is torture. This," a sharp twinge of pain scurries along my jaw, "is discipline. Do you see the difference?"

I stare at the King, at a loss for words. My mind reels with the thought of such inhumanity, such beastly pleasure at the inflicting of pain on others. More monstrous than beast, even. For what I had believed was torture was nothing compared to that. And I knew that I never wanted to see it again. I instinctively tilt my head forward in a submissive bow, though it can hardly be bowed any further.

"Good," he purrs, completely satisfied with himself. A glint of animalistic bloodlust glows in his eyes as he looks at Shruikan, maimed if not in true body. He looks back at me, and his grin could not have been more terrifying. "I think I have finally found the solution to this." He speaks slowly as though disbelieving himself, though his grin is unwavering. "If you cannot successfully complete a task, perhaps together you shall." At first, my brow furrows in confusion, and I raise my head slightly to look at him. A sting winds down my neck, though it is nothing to the pain shared briefly with Shruikan.

___What do you mean? _I ask carefully.

"Murtagh!" crows the King instead. "___Murtagh!"_

Obediently, a figure arrives at the door, hastily entering and appearing rather out of breath. I stare in shock at him, horrified that the King would bring him here now. Especially if our latest conversation was about ___torture…_

"I have a task for you and your dragon," the King says, unknowing of my utter relief that his words are not what I feared. My heart plummets in my chest, however, as he continues. "You are to finish what Shruikan obviously could not. ___Steal the green dragon—egg, hatchling, or adult—and bring him and his Rider to me, dead or alive. Find the dragoness. Mate with her, Thorn, if you can, and if you cannot, kill her._"

___Why should I kill her? _I ask, mentally flinching at the ancient language.

"Kill her only if you cannot mate with her," he dismisses calmly. "She is no use to us if she does not bear us any eggs. If I cannot have a Forsworn, then none of Alagaësia may have any dragons."

Silence reigns after his words, Murtagh's silent shock echoing my own. With a cynical smile, the King continues. "You may, of course, use magic, though if you even ___think _to use it against me… well." He gestures airily with a hand back at Shruikan, Murtagh glancing at me mutely for explanation. I keep my silence, fearing to upset the King. "You will have to work for your own provisions, and that sword of yours is the only weapon I shall give you." Shruikan moans quietly from the corner, evidently still pained. The King's smile broadens. "You may have as much time as you need," he continues, my confused glance locked on him, "however for every day you fail, Shruikan shall not eat."

The Black Dragon's head weakly raises, looking at the King in shock, then to me with a hint of despair. My own eyes mirror his as Murtagh stiffens noticeably by the door. "Today counts," adds the King lightly, as though making a jest about something. My teeth clench reflexively, heart throbbing with despair. While a healthy dragon can survive nearly a month without food, a badly malnourished and weakened one is doubtful to say a fortnight. Not to mention, today, which leaves only nine days. My heart gives another dreadful beat.

___There is no way, _I breathe silently, horror lacing my voice. The King just smiles, ever pleased with himself.

"Then you must find a way. You may leave tomorrow."

___Tomorrow! But that only gives us eight days! _I protest, to the King's obvious bemusement.

"Who says it gives you only eight days? You have as much time as you need, so long as you do not care for Shruikan." He laughs coldly, shaking his head as though overwhelmed with his own ingenious. I look at Shruikan helplessly, though he lingers on the verge of passing out, only blearily aware of our conversation. My heart gives another aching thud in my chest, the only sound I can hear. Eight days. Eight days. Eight days. The words play over in my mind, my throat tightening. How does he expect Murtagh and I to do that all in ___eight days? _

Staring at his terribly pleased look, however, I know the truth.

He doesn't. He not only knows we can't succeed, but he looks forward to our failure. Bile rises in my throat at such a thought and I only just force it down.

"You are dismissed," he says at last, moving back over to his throne. Shruikan rises stiffly, somehow managing to hobble toward the door. He silently moves past Murtagh, who stares after him as he noses his way through the door, limping out. I follow slowly, almost guiltily at how much easier walker is for me than for him. As I pass Murtagh, I lower my head, our own gazes meeting. When he just looks back, however, I nudge his side toward the door, and he moves through it as though in a daze. I spare a last glance over my shoulder, the King looking back with the same wicked expression.

___I'll be back, _I promise.

And I close the door behind me without another word.

* * *

We walk down the hall, the silence tight between us. Murtagh's strides are cool and easy, though he moves very carefully; cautious, though, rather than pained. My own steps lumber along beside his, my heart echoing constantly with those words. ___Eight days. _Eight days until I fail yet again, eight days before Shruikan dies from starvation, eight days before the world is ruined.

I force the thoughts aside, shouldering past them as a vexed person does when agitated by another. Our steps click and pad along in quiet rhythm with one another, though neither of us dares speak. The ragged stone around us passes by in monotonous symmetry, completely and utterly unaffected by my dilemma. I glower at them, as though somehow it is their fault, anyone's fault that I have to do this. My tail lashes slightly in protest, though I know it is not true. Worse, I know that the only one at fault cannot be punished because of it. Eventually, Murtagh breaks the silence.

"What happened back there?"

I know he doesn't mean that which he saw, for the bitter understanding in his mind is unmistakable. I sigh deeply, shaking my head.

___You do not want to know. _Something in my voice keeps him from inquiring further.

"How long… can dragons last before starvation?" he instead asks, though the question is no less painful than the first. I force the sob back from my voice as I answer.

___Up to a month, if in good health. Otherwise… _my voice dwindles off, though with an effort I continue. ___Perhaps a fortnight. _

He nods once, though I sense his wince even though neither of us looks at the other. A dry moan interrupts us and I turn my head to the left, Shruikan laying in a thick crevice between two corridors. His usually callous black eyes hold nothing but pity as he looks up at me, mirroring my own for him. Murtagh moves around my right shoulder, standing beside it, somehow knowing not to speak.

___Whatever you do, _begins Shruikan slowly. ___Do not kill them. _I start to protest dutifully, though he again states, ___Do not kill them_. The resoluteness is his voice cannot be argued, nor can the staunchness of his gaze as he looks at me.

I lower my head in silent anguish. ___He'll kill you, Shruikan. If I don't do this… he'll kill you._

He nods once, a hint of his patronizing self returning to him. ___I know, Thorn. _He looks up at me, almost sorrowfully. ___You must understand this, though. If you kill them, you will do far worse to me than you can imagine. My life has been used to harm Alagaësia. I could not live it if it were the threat of my death that brought the end of it. Keep them alive, Thorn, and there is a chance. For you and I, there may not be, but for them… _

His voice fades, and I know he doesn't realize the hurt he inflicts on me at his words. ___I will, _I agree gravelly at last. ___I swear, I'll keep them and you alive. Somehow. _

___Thorn, _he chuckles sadly. His massive black body curled up in the hollow seems oddly vulnerable and weak, matching my sudden viewing of him. ___Stop worrying about me, _he continues.___ This is my life—how it's always been. The more you try and enter it, the more hurt you'll become. Just stay away and let life take its own course with you. _

I look at him helplessly, wishing more than anything to protest but somehow not able to defy him. I nod once mutely, moving my snout forward to lay it beside his in a sign of comradeship. ___Goodbye, Shruikan. _

He nudges my snout and I withdraw. ___Tomorrow is sooner than you think. You'd best be preparing yourselves, _he admonishes. I nod again, turning to leave. Murtagh shakes his head slowly, though he follows as I move away again.

I can swear that just as I turned the corner I heard a faint, ___Farewell, hatchling. _

**Chapter end notes:**

Sorry for the 'short' chapter; I didn't really want to crowd it too much, though, so I just stuck with Thorn's part. Next chapter will most likely have both-definitely a Saphira, anyway.

0

"What wisdom is there in secrecy?"

******Thorn**

We were ready to go at sunrise.

The moment that golden sliver had crept over the horizon, Murtagh and I were rested, packed, and ready to leave. The guards had been dutifully silent as we made our way past them, a great black shadow following from a distance. As we had approached the gates, the corridors had seemed only to grow bleaker, despite the questing tendrils of light seeping into them. My eyes were stoically set forward, my steps almost robotic as I moved beside my Rider. He had appeared equally subdued, and between us our contact reverberated with indefinable feelings caught between dismay, anguish, and even a sense of dutiful resignation.

My left foot catches on the stone floor, though I catch myself mid-stumble, straightening wordlessly. Murtagh offers no words, either, and the silence grows thicker between us. Again, the shadow sways around behind us, weaving through side corridors so as to appear less conspicuous. I dare not look back at it, for fear of losing courage and rushing back to him, to plead to the King that I will do anything—___anything_—beside this. A sharp 'ah!' doesn't cause me to flinch as a younger man is tended to be a healer, obstinately silent as she ushers him over to a seat. Guards grumble curses to one another, falling eerily silent as we pass by. My claws seem muffled as they click on the ground, Murtagh's feet gliding over it softly.

The corridor widens, twin doors shut firmly on the hinges before us. Nearly a half dozen guards barricade it, though at a flat look from Murtagh they move easily to unlatch it. Dim sunlight falls over us, my eyes contracting to slits in its weak onslaught. I blink owlishly for several moments, Murtagh soundlessly striding ahead, unperturbed. He moves over the stone path coolly, as naturally as strolling through a park. Around us, thick stone walls vanish to become city, guarded only by a last border of stone and then one of wood much farther out. The ruby sword belted to Murtagh's waist catches the light briefly; I grimace at the familiar scarlet color.

Taking a deep, resigned breath, I move outward, quickly joining Murtagh. Our strides match, though neither of us offers to fly. Eight days, eight days, eight days, my heart echoes. Eight days is all you have.

I look down at him and he wordlessly looks up, some mutuality clear in our gaze. I crouch low without command, offering my right shoulder. He grasps one of my neck spikes tightly, hauling himself up carefully. The unfamiliar weight on my back feels odd to me, though I straighten without comment. I can feel his slightly calloused hands tight around the neck spike, his shoulders hunched forward to bear the imminent gust of wind. I draw in another deep breath—___eight days, eight days, _my heart thuds.

I dare to look over my shoulder, back at that castle, looming ever so high into the frosty blue sky. Its towers seem cold and callous as ice, its gates dark arms beckoning inward. The stone that makes its foundation bares itself to the wind, built to withstand the harshest of winter storms. Very gradually my eyes stray downward, locking upon the shadow. The Black Dragon.

I do not believe that I had ever seem him so terribly sad or lonely standing in that entrance, lingering around a corner. His big black eyes never struck me as so sorrowful before, and I knew that that sadness would remain in my mind. But I had also never seen him as ___him _before; that blazing spirit hidden in his eyes, almost a physical strength seeming to wash over me just at the sight of his own courage. A trace of indigo flashes there—the darkest, richest indigo I'd ever seen. He closes his eyes, however, taking a deep breath.

And for a moment, he is not black, but the purest indigo, his scales reflecting the light. His eyes open briefly, and for once I see him as what he was before Shruikan—before he was locked away in that castle. He bows his head once in farewell before slinking back, tip of his tail fading to black once more just as he rounds the corner.

Sobs break silently in my chest as I realize, truly, this could be the last time I will ever see him. Worse, he believes I won't ever see him again… for words needn't describe the finality in that look, or the showing of his true self to me. I shake my head firmly to clear those thoughts, and, with a powerful thrust, leap into the sky.

My wings catch the wind like sails as I open them, gliding along as effortlessly as blinking or breathing. My heart soars in my chest as well, renewed life beating through me as I disappear into gray clouds. The castle stands behind us, though its tall black towers—wicked claws reaching from some Hell below—cannot reach us. I roar once, though it is a cry of sheer enjoyment. Free, the thought echoes from my soul. Free.

* * *

Life is as bitter as it is sweet.

For even in that moment of perfection, I was reminded of the staunch reality that stood between myself and true freedom. The war. The King. The world itself seem to step before me, shaking a rebuking head and pointing me back towards where I knew I had to go. My exuberance dwindled away to silence, and finally despair as the severity of the mission set in. I had eight days to do this, if that. Eight days to either succeed and destroy this world and the one I simply could not, or eight days to kill a dragon I had come to know as my friend.

I wished with all my might to scream out my frustration to the world. To let it know how much it pressures me, and how much it hurts me. I was certain that it was absolutely determined to not only tear me apart but see that it was a slow and agonizing process. For if I died, I brought more than just myself to the grave, whether those others realized it or not.

I had to get the Varden, I knew suddenly. And I had to get there ___fast. _

But what would I do when I got there? a pessimistic side of me taunts. Claim I wish only to help and hope they will listen? Bah. They would burn me themselves. If I attempted to complete the King's mission, I would ruin everything for them and Alagaësia. If I attempted to side with them, I would most likely be ignored.

And if I failed, Shruikan would die.

The dawn creeps upward over the land, each moment seeming in sync with my heart, ticking off the words ___eight days, eight days. _My eyes wander over the landscape, barren and dry as ever. The Hadarac desert, I muse, remembering when first Murtagh and I had flown over it. I disappear in that memory, so desperate to escape the beating of my heart and its horrid reminder that the battle seemed a reprieve.

There were hundreds—no, ___thousands _of soldiers, all scrabbling on the ground… ___swords clashing above their heads, ringing death with each clang. Piercing cries as lives were ended reverberated through my ears, penetrating deep into my mind and branding themselves there. The blood was like a carpet, writhing with the masses of bodies being thrust down upon it. Maimed horses whinnied and kicked, injuring any who dared venture close. Arrows twanged off, chorusing with the bangs of shields catching blows and soldiers being smote down. The scent of coppery blood was an overwhelming one, mixed with salty sweat and the thick scent of death that seemed to linger over the entire plains. _

___My eyes strayed downward as a formidable army of shorter men and women joined the Varden's faltering forces, sending an enthusiastic surge across their lines. Our men fell back slightly, though I growled low and met myself for the challenge as the scent of dragoness filled the air before me. My claws extended, teeth bared, I roared out my mingled fury and curiosity and called her to challenge. _

___We clashed, teeth ripping into one another, claws driven deep into each other's flesh, maws open in fierce cries at one another as our Riders dueled before us… _A shiver of phantom pain courses through me and I cast the memory aside, wishing it to be gone even as it claws at my mind like a starving beast, trying to gather purchase there and haunt me.

A reassuring pat on the shoulder seems to speak volumes as I glide ahead, a strange gratefulness washing over me. Our minds linger on the same problems, and yet we both still accept it, and we would both weather it out, for better or worse.

With that thought in mind, I shoot off, bound southward for Surda.

* * *

******Saphira **

My dreams are plagued with fire.

A consuming, wrathful blaze that creeps over everything around me, silhouettes of dwindling trees being swallowed inside the inferno. Horrible screams resound through the air, echoed by the sharp creaking and groaning of bark being ripped from its tree. Fiery branches reach out questing fingers, naughty children snatching anything in their grasp. The heat drowns out all thought, coughing and wheezing smoke from its uppermost levels. A whitish haze blots out the land, though even so it is clear of the true animation to the forest.

Dying trees weep over fallen comrades, branches thrown outward like arms as they wail and screech in anguish. Shrubs sob softly together, huddled at their bases and shushing younger plants from their own crying. Branches of coupled trees cling to one another, bending over each other and whispering quiet goodbyes as they're destroyed. Grass hisses in useless protest, its defenses crushed, burned, and broken.

Yet amidst the fires grasps, two roses stand firm. Both are impossibly white, unaffected by the fire. They sway as though in a gentle breeze, sharply contrasting the fierce assault of smoky wind around me. The choking atmosphere doesn't touch them, delicate leaves sculpted perfectly and rising from the ever-burning ground calmly. Nearby a third rose bends, edges singed black and center grayed with soot. Despite such, its bright scarlet color takes me by surprise, captivating and bizarre at once. I step forward, fire lapping harmlessly at my paws, anger rising in it as I heedlessly approach the roses. I notice then a gray rose lying on the ground, destroyed by the blaze, a strange sorrow overwhelming me. Beside it a black one folds, slipping slowly toward the ground as well.

I stare down at the white roses, my eyes training on the one standing on the right. For a moment, the faintest trace of blue glows there, though when I blink it is gone. Beside it the white rose withers suddenly, sputtering and flailing about in the smoke as it is captured by it. Moments later the red rose flares, its petals just touching the edges of the remaining white rose. A singed splotch of red lingers there, though the rose does not crumple, despite the fallen white one beside it. The black one finally submits, laying itself beside the gray, and the white one grays as well.

The red one is suddenly torn away from the last white, thrown into the bitter onslaught of fire. I cry out involuntarily, though it is gone in moments.

The last image I see is that of the white rose falling as well, graying as it touches the dying ground.

* * *

My breaths come slowly and calmly, yet my heart seems to thunder in my chest as I lay on the cracked earth, eyes scanning the unchanging grounds carefully. An aura of dispirited necessity seems to hang over the camp like a plague, people moving around in an almost emotionless haze. The usually affable atmosphere is layered with dread, thickening with each moment as I stare in silence. A dream, I remind myself firmly. A frightening dream, but a dream—nothing more. My thoughts resist my calming notions, though eventually the shock and even fear of such a nightmare fades into nothing but a hazy memory.

Warily lifting my head from my paws for a better view, I glance over the thin tan tarps pitched in neat rows, soldiers wandering between them idly. Occasionally one raises their gaze to look at me, an unreadable expression there, before moving on, never once offering word. As my wariness grows, a soft murmuring of conversation arises from inside the tent at my left side and I turn my head. The fuzzy silhouettes of several humans—one prone on a pallet—greet my searching gaze, two of which I know are Nasuada and Orrin, and the third I know to be Eragon. Just perceptible through the surprisingly thick material is Blödhgarm's oddly relaxed pose in one corner, ever calm.

I shift around to peek my head inside, the Kull guards moving accordingly with the grudging acceptance of subordinates in the midst of a vexing superior. Well, I dismiss, there's nothing that can be done about such. Peering within, I notice that only King Orrin and Blödhgarm are awake, Nasuada sitting in a chair backed by a pair of chests. Her chest rises and falls lightly with each breath, though her face is written with discontent. I look to Orrin, who yawns silently as he nods off Blödhgarm's quiet inquiries. The unusual King dons a silky cream robe, traced with bronze and silver lining. The cuffs of his sleeves are wide and casual, matching his rather disheveled hair and the sleepy look on his face.

"Blödhgarm," he says in a conceding fashion, "I understand your concerns of your… kind's taking to execution, but it has to be done and I'm sure you can reason with them. Surely you do not see some other solution?" He looks at the elf tiredly. Blödhgarm stares back in silence for several moments, his fingers absently intertwining and his head tilting very slightly to the left, considering.

"I suppose," he agrees in a murmur. The fur on the back of his neck, however, prickles as though irritated, his eyes narrowing fractionally. Orrin, unsurprisingly, takes no notice of such, though I silently store it away for later.

"When's the execution?" mutters a dry voice. The three of us immediately look at Eragon, who calmly folds his arms over his chest, not bothering open his eyes.

"Uh… later today, I would assume," Orrin supplies, evidently startled.

"Mmm." A pause. "How much later, would you assume?" he presses, making no notion to move. Orrin frowns slightly, caught off-guard by the sudden addition to the conversation.

Blödhgarm replies. "By noon, most probably."

Eragon opens an eye to a slit. "Noon?" He groans. "And what time, dare I ask, is it now?"

Raising an eyebrow mildly, the elf answers, "Just a few hours past sunrise, Shadeslayer." His demeanor betrays nothing but calm, though the hint of bafflement in his eyes does not go unmissed by me. I look to Eragon as he sits up slowly, rubbing the back of his head dourly. He looks at Blödhgarm and Orrin both skeptically, as though doubting them, before shaking his head groggily and rising.

"The night is too short for my liking," he comments, absently flexing his once-wounded shoulder. "Hmm," he muses, offering no thanks or even notice of Blödhgarm's effort. I look at him oddly, though his expression betrays nothing but weary disgruntlement. With a mental shrug I stow it away for later; perhaps then it might be useful. "I can't say I'm surprised," he notes dourly. "Elva never seemed particularly fond of me." His fogged gaze scans the tent questioningly, a disturbing hint in his now-blue eyes. "Where is the egg?" he asks at last, albeit reluctantly.

King Orrin immediately glances to Blödhgarm, who calmly retrieves the egg from a nearby sack. Thoughts of wary confusion radiate from the hatchling, uncomfortable around the elf's peculiar presence. "Might I have a look at it?" prompts Orrin in the resuming silence. Wordlessly the elf rises, striding across the short distance between them and relinquishing the egg to the Surdan King. A subtle wave of unease and displeasure radiates from him, though subdued by his ever-calm aura. The eccentric King taps a thin finger against the egg, a delighted smile blooming on his face. His aged hands search the egg's polished surface, examining it with both wonder and speculation.

"Can this be so?" he asks aloud, to no one in particular. Nasuada blearily awakens herself, though neither elf, King, or Rider take notice. "How can this truly be ours?"

"I've been wondering that myself," acknowledges Eragon, rather stoutly. I shoot him a firm glance—a 'knock it off' look—though he mentally shrugs my presence off as though I am a bothersome cloak. I growl quietly in discontent. "It really is a strange miracle that we have it," he all but drawls on, King Orrin bobbing his head once in quiet agreement.

"Where is Elva?" Nasuada inquires sleepily, a hand raising as though to rub her eyes before falling back to her lap with a silent sigh. "I haven't seen her nor Angela or Solembum since last night."

"I am sure they can handle her," Blödhgarm assures knowingly. His scarlet-brown fur glows in the dim morning light that manages to peer through the tent. "After all, you yourself entrusted Angela to care for Elva initially, and she is hardly older now than then."

"Hardly," repeats Nasuada, dubious. She nods, however, and the conversation is dropped as King Orrin proffers the egg to her.

"Care to have a look at it? It's really quite remarkable," he offers, reverting back comfortably to his usual knowledgeable self. "I've never seen stone this smooth before; the closest I've come to handling myself is some diamond. And such fine color! A marvel in itself to be such a shade of green, for sure. These veins are unusual, though…"

"I would," Nasuada interrupts quietly, the King letting her take it from his hands without protest. Blödhgarm folds his arms over his chest in the corner, appearing vexed over something. I shake my head mentally. Strange creatures, elves are.

"Remarkable indeed," the Varden's leader murmurs to herself, a finger tracing the delicate white veins pulsing on its sides. The hatchling purrs within, snuggling deeper into his protected rest. I sigh once enviously. "We must remember to keep this a secret, though," she warns us all sternly, glancing up briefly from the egg. "If any hear of this there could be great trouble for us all."

"How do you propose we find its Rider, then?" Eragon retorts starkly. Our gazes all look to him, though his blue eyes meet ours coldly. "If the Varden do not even know what we have… well, I strongly doubt we'll be finding its Rider amongst them." He snorts once, crossing his arms and looking at Nasuada. The incredulous leader just stares back, finally finding her voice.

"You know it would be unwise to simply reveal to the Varden that we have a dragon egg, Eragon," she rebukes, quiet yet firm.

"What wisdom is there in secrecy?"

"A great deal, Shadeslayer," Blödhgarm interrupts, fur bristling under his ears. The elf looks at him for several long moments skeptically, though Eragon stares back.

Finally, I intervene. ___Enough, _I order them both. ___Eragon, what is with you? You flinch to say Galbatorix's name, and the thought of hiding the egg from everyone who may or may not prove trustworthy irritates you. What's wrong? _

"Nothing," he replies stoutly, and I know that is all the answer I will get of him. He sits on the edge of the pallet, shaking his head. "Nothing at all," he mutters, looking at the ground. I mentally nudge him for more, though he blocks me out. I sigh deeply in resignation as Blödhgarm stands.

"I do believe it is time we get this execution over with," he says simply, a look of brief disgust crossing his features. "No use delaying such things." And he exits the tent, slipping past me soundlessly. Nasuada looks after him, one arm cradling the egg, while Orrin leans back in his chair with a sigh.

"He's right," he admits. "There's business to be tended to today, after all."

Nasuada nods once vaguely, rising from her own seat as though in a daze and slipping the egg into a sack. The unborn hatchling within chirrups once, sounding unhappy, before she lifts the sack and shoulders it firmly.

"My Lady, don't you think that will draw attention to it?" Orrin protests. The Varden's leader shrugs once.

"It is safer with me than it would be lying around here anyway," she dismisses coolly. King Orrin shrugs and I retreat briefly to allow both them to exit. They move off, though I slide my head back inside as Eragon remains unmoving. He stares at his hands blankly for several long moments. Finally, he stands, moving over to the tent entrance. He doesn't look at me, though when he tries to slide past I casually block his path.

___Eragon. _

He shakes his head slowly. "I don't know, Saphira. We need to go with Orrin and Nasuada, so can we please discuss this later?" I can easily see past his false promise, though I nod once anyway.

___We will discuss this later, _I agree before allowing him to pass.

**Chapter end notes:**

Couple things I'd like to mention here. First, this is a filler chapter-sorry if it's kinda boring. Hopefully the next will be more entertaining for you. Second, there was some past-tense mixed in with Thorn's part; I hope that didn't break up the flow of his part too terribly. Lastly, thank you so much to my readers, and especially my reviewer. You guys know who you are and you're great; really keeps me motived to write. :)

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___'We never intended to come undetected.'_

******Thorn**

What is worse than arriving at your personal Hell?

I don't think anything I'd felt before could've equaled the dread I felt as the stretch of land between myself and Surda grew thinner and thinner. Lead weights seemed to drag on my wings, pulling me towards the ground as I so wished to just leave behind. My teeth grit as I force myself to continue, tan clouds concealing the bitter sun beneath them. The dim morning light illuminates the encampment clearly even from this distance, though haziness soon causes it to twist elastically before my gaze. I squint, able to make out the small figures of people milling about, oblivious to my presence.

I rise upward, using the cloud cover to my advantage as I scan the earth below me gloomily. Soon, a pessimistic part of me taunts, I'll have to land. Very soon.

I breathe in deeply, the hot, sticky air seeming to frustrate me more than soothe. I shake my head, clingy dew clutching the pockets of air between scales. With a dreary sigh, I turn higher, wing-beats driving me upward with each powerful thrum. I glance up at the sun, eyes contracting to slits in response to the suddenly intense glare. It presses down on my back like a rebuking hand, forcing me towards earth with each pulse of my wings. I growl low and slowly obey.

Where to begin? the logical half of me points out grimly. Fail at mating the dragoness and kill her, or perhaps be killed trying to reclaim the green egg? Neither side lifts my spirits though eventually I settle upon the latter as I angle east.

Though not terribly obvious, it is not too difficult either to find the area where the most important people are dwelling. My eyes strain to identify perhaps who their leader is, though from such distance my vision fails me.

___Careful, Thorn, _cautions Murtagh as I dip out from beneath the clouds.

___Why? _I silently retort, heart yearning for an answer despite such. Futility is as effective a poison as hopelessness, and together they fit well. My heart drones out the word: ___futility_. My breath quickens slightly, as though walls close around me, forcing me ahead where only a dead-end awaits. I try to slam my way through it, though it is bitterly firm, resisting my efforts as though I am no more than a bothersome fly. I roar in frustration, though my warring remains silent in my mind as I swoop back into cloud-cover.

___We have wonderful timing, _muses Murtagh sourly. ___Morning. No cover of darkness and completely seen by all. Perfect. _

I shrug a shoulder, winding around to slow myself. ___Do you expect this mission to stay secret long anyway? _I return. He sighs huffily and lays his arms languorously over my neck, grumbling incoherently to himself.

___If they don't kill us, the King will. And all you can think of is 'well, since they'll notice us anyway why not just be noticed?' _

___Precisely. _

A bark of harsh laughter escapes him, lost to the overriding keening of wind as it glides past us. My wings ripple slightly as I descend, my ruby form reflecting the sunlight far too brightly for comfort. Like a splotch of blood on an untainted piece of parchment, I stand out all too remarkably in the dull desert.

Yet, unbelievably, not a soul raises cry of alarm. I slowly ease toward the ground, ever prepared to lurch upward if necessary. Grainy sand shimmers beneath me as my claws graze it, landing with a single hop to keep my balance. I shake my head firmly to clear the dew, a shiver winding throughout my limbs in anticipation. I know not whether I look forward to or dread finding the egg, though the slight flicker of hope that maybe—just ___maybe—_I can succeed shoos away any sort of doubts. Murtagh slides down from my back, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword warily. Our heads turn back and forth almost in unison as we scan the grounds for enemies, yet none swamp toward us with blades and shields as we expect. No arrows rain down on our heads; no curses launch themselves at the air, piercing our souls as effectively as knives.

All is far too quiet.

Slowly, I start forward, body crouched low to the ground as my belly all but scrapes the sandy ground. My wings are folded tightly to my sides, though I still feel terribly vulnerable against the traitorously light-colored sand. My steps are calculated, my breath hot and thick as I continue. Murtagh moves silently in my shadow, our steps muffled by the sand that crawls beneath our feet. I growl low at it, irritated at the irksome stuff, though more focused on not being discovered.

A merciful sight greets us; a thick plateau, wedged between the desert and the Varden's obvious encampment, stands not half a league from us. I wordlessly move toward it, Murtagh needing no further prompting to follow. Soon we are encompassed in its thin shadow, hidden behind its tightly-packed walls. The tan structure stands before us, though whether concealing worse things to come or shielding us from those, I do not know.

I hug the wall as I walk, my wings folded close to my sides to make myself appear as small as possible. My eyes alertly scan the grounds for any signs of treachery, my breaths coming slow and shallow. Eventually I must relinquish the cover of the plateau to the desert, my steps crouched as I slink out into the open.

Distant voices are raised, their words impossible to distinguish from here. I lift my head hopefully, yet they defy my efforts, leaving me deaf to their threats. I slowly move along, sinking lower to the ground with each step for better cover. A light breeze blows past my wings, gliding past them soundlessly. My ears twitch as the sound of ruffling tarp reaches me, muted as twin wings are pressed close to someone's side.

My heart skips a beat.

I look upward very hesitantly, my eyes widening as I press myself tight to the wall, heart thundering in my chest as I subtly refortify my mind's barriers. I close my eyes, some childish notion that perhaps if I cannot see ___her, _she cannot see me. The sound of her wings ruffling again stills my heart abruptly; not only is she nearby, she's ___close. _A traitorous shiver squirms down my back as I crouch as low as I possibly can. My claws brush the sand, the shushing sound causing her to straighten. I hold my breath—she hovers above me, seated on the plateau. Her eyes scan the horizon skeptically, her nostrils flaring.

I cringe as a breeze sweeps through, drawing her attention almost instantaneously to myself. A snarl curls her lip, her eyes shadowed menacingly as she glowers down at me. Murtagh wisely waits off behind the plateau still, though I know it is only a matter of time before she notices him as well. Her claws tense on the hard ground, her muscles bending in unison as she cranes her neck upward and growls down at me. Her eyes flick toward Murtagh's hidden standing and I back slowly to draw her attention. Accordingly her head whips around, her wings flaring outward with a loud ___whoosh_.

Her gaze never once leaves my as we stare at each other, hers full of malice and mine full of hopeless dread. ___Hello again, Saphira, _I greet meekly in an effort to perhaps reassure our brief time together. I can hear the soil crack as her claws dig even deeper into it, her muscles all but convulsing from the strain.

___What are you doing here? _she demands icily instead. I resist the urge to cower back, reminding myself that I am no less cowed by her than she is by me. I straighten my stance, though I still feel unusually small against her. Her growl, though murderous, is so familiar a sound it aches like the whisper of a sound once heard, now changed entirely. Circumstantial bonding, I muse bitterly. It was only through lack of choices that we ever held any affection towards one another; nothing more.

At least, nothing more to her.

I tilt my wings back to show I am not afraid, though her outspread wings seem to dwarf mine. ___What are you doing here? _she repeats impatiently, unpleased with my silence. I long to just explain to her it all, though I hold my tongue. She growls lower, her forelegs flexing as she settles back on her haunches. I am not fooled at the seemingly submissive stance, though I drop my wings suddenly to my sides and sit back as well. Her head cocks to one side suspiciously.

___Why are you here? _I ask. Our gazes remain locked intensely, the dispassion in hers drowning any hopes of winning her alliance. I bare myself to her, allowing the utter despair that has throbbed in my heart for so long to surface and pour over. The great sorrow sweeps me up in it, a smoldering anger simmering from beneath at the unfairness of it all. Never once does her stare break, though I can sense the change in it as I step away from my isolation and let her know my misery.

___I could ask you the same, _she returns with a pointed look over at the rock where Murtagh hides behind. Sensing defeat he emerges, hand leaving his sword hilt briefly as he strides over to my side. Saphira's gaze follows him, and I silently applaud Murtagh for controlling himself so. When your enemy holds the high-ground, it's best to appear neutral.

She does not seem nearly as impressed.

With a sudden lunge, she takes off, soaring over us both. Her scales glitter magnificently in the morning light, accenting the lightest of blues as well as deepening the rich sapphire that covers her. Her perfectly curled ivory claws seem the most remarkable contrast I've ever seen, far more beautiful than any other white. My eyes stray across her belly, the sinuous curve to her forelegs entrancing me, dipping healthily around her chest before gliding down past her legs to the very tip of her tail, barbs reflecting the light coolly. Her scent nearly overwhelms me a moment later as she passes, the entire motion taken mere seconds to complete. I sway, dizzied by the alluring flavor to her scent. My nostrils flare, capturing that smell and savoring it in memory.

Dragon scents do not register the same way human smells do; they are far less defined, and yet far more glorious for it. Her natural perfume carries with it the sweetness of honey, mingled with the delicate taste of evergreen. Cool freshness like the first sip of a drink resonates from her, intertwined with the ravishing feminine scent that is simply indefinable. I near sink to my knees with the force of it, watching in a daze as she lands not a dozen yards away behind me. I turn around slowly, swaying slightly on my feet as though drunk.

A delighted purr involuntarily escapes me as I look at her, though her strangely neutral expression suddenly darkens. Her eyes narrow substantially, her growl both furious and affronted. The murderous look on her face douses my gaiety as effectively as a drench in cold water and I turn my head aside shamefully.

She strides forward slowly, Murtagh nudging my shoulder once urgently. I look back at her, her expression cooling once more as she stops and paces ten feet away. ___So you come alone, _she says thoughtfully, glancing at us both. I hesitate, torn between agreeing or lying, before nodding my head once. ___Are you so foolish as to believe you can just sneak into our camp, undetected, and do whatever it is that you want? _

___We never intended to come undetected, _I lie flawlessly. My own voice surprises me, though I hide it well enough. She raises an eyebrow disbelievingly.

___What do you want? _she demands yet again. I shrug a shoulder, offering no answer. She closes the distance between us in a single nimble leap, myself stepping back reflexively. I can almost feel her breath, my legs going weak and nearly collapsing beneath me at such a thing. I shake myself firmly mentally, paling at the thought of mating with her. That I would dare even attempt to force myself upon such a wondrous, free-spirited dragon as her sickens me briefly and I lower my head unthinkingly. Not willingly, my conscience comforts, though I ignore it.

___You want to know why I am here? _I ask hollowly, looking back up at her with hopeless red eyes. Without waiting for an answer I step forward, pressing my forehead against hers before she can resist and dragging her back into the smoky darkness of my past.

* * *

******Saphira **

Though reluctant to leave my Rider's side, I had had no intention of staying around to witness Elva's execution, so I had excused myself for a time. Blödhgarm had accepted with nothing more than a bow of his head, King Orrin shrugging it off not unlike Eragon. Nasuada had simply given me free lead, allowing me to be excused. My feet had carried me while my mind wandered, eventually taking me to the ever-familiar plateau where Murtagh, Thorn, Eragon and I dueled. I do not know what drove me to that spot, though I had unquestioningly flown to its top and since remained there.

Minutes, hours, years, centuries—however great the time that passed, I knew not. I imagined Alagaësia free of its tyrant-king, and how families would be free to grow and live together peacefully, that there would be no bloodshed or tears such as this. That there would be some safety that the world was desperately lacking; some assurance that the next day would come, and that it would continue for many days beyond. My fantasizing was broken, however, when ___he _appeared.

I had attempted to appear callous, though even so my curiosity at his presence was too vast to ignore. It had been days since we'd seen one another, yet it felt months from the malnourishment that showed clear on his ragged hide. No matter the questioning I asked him he avoided them, frustrating me. I had decided that I would confront him face-to-face as my higher stance seemed to intimidate him somewhat from an answer.

Then he'd ___purred _and my anger had been renewed, overriding any curiosity I had. When he guiltily lowered, I longed to simply nudge him and force him to answer my question. Instead he fixed me with sad red eyes, filled to bursting with tears never shed over sorrows he should never have felt.

Recklessly he spoke, myself moving back a foot or so warily as he moved forward. Before I could escape his range, however, he thrust his forehead against mine, tumbling us both into a graveyard.

Or so it appeared.

A wisp of smoke curls around my neck, seeming to choke away my life and I stagger back. My limbs feel leaden with thick lead, far too heavy to move, and I slip down to the unseen ground. Voices shout in my ears incoherently, obscenities mixed in frequently. I gracelessly stumble to my feet, looking over to see Thorn seated calmly amidst a cloud of gray smoke, head bowed to the ground in what appears to be a placating gesture. I step closer, the vaguest outlines of… something confining his face, neck, and legs. I move closer yet, the shadowy lines gaining more substantiality. Closer and closer, clearer and clearer metal chains become, sketched out around him. They sprawl over his back, trapping his wings and leaning contentedly along the width of his tail.

A voice speaks, shattering the smoky darkness into new light. I blink owlishly against the thin torchlight, eyes widening in shock at the sight of Galbatorix's throne room. A sharp flare of pain brands itself against my shoulder, a roar escaping me involuntarily. I look for Thorn, though he exists no longer separately, our breath swelling and falling in sync as we share the mental body.

I step forward, drawing Thorn's body closer as well, our minds linked with a foreboding feeling. Everywhere we can feel it; that ominous, terrible presence of fear lurching in the air like a poison. Our breath halts in our throat, our heart pounding frantically as we squint, straining to see past the darkness.

Choked gasps fill the air suddenly, followed slowly by the faint shadows of humans. The two emerge as though stepping from behind the black curtain of a stage, horror thundering in our chest as we stare on helplessly. They are far larger than us, and the frightened aura lingering around the one draws forth even more panic within us. We crouch and chirp once pitifully, wishing to flee from the awful hurt of the man. The man with a dagger pressed to his throat, another looming over him as he chokes and wheezes.

"Swear to me," hisses the dark man strangling the other. The choked man coughs, ourselves sinking further to the floor in desperation.

But what is swearing? We know not, glancing helplessly up at them.

"Swear to me!" roars the dark man. We cower back, attracting the dark man's attention. He smiles at us, though something seems very unsafe about the gesture. We start to hobble back, though he catches us by the neck, releasing the other momentarily. The cold bite of metal nips at our throat, a hard fist wrapping around our throat as we are hoisted into the air. We writhe futilely in their grasp, distressed chirps squeezing past our throat. "Swear to me or he dies," the dark man whispers, looking only at the other man.

The other man looks at us with anguished eyes before bowing his head. "All right," he mutters gravelly, voice defeated. Something is wrong; if only we had the breath to scream it at him, to warn him against doing such. "I will swear to you."

It seems an eternity of falling as we are released by the dark man, his sinister sneer forever branded in our minds. We crash into a hard surface, groaning as the ache in our wings resurfaces. We shake ourselves carefully, looking up through bleary eyes at the King once more. He smirks at us; we bow our head to the floor and close our eyes, hoping uselessly that it will make the pain less brutal.

Something tugs at our minds, jerking us away, and we fall back against a cold cell floor, fresh blood on our burning wings. A black shadow lingers menacingly at the door, growling at us almost warningly before leaving. We lay on the floor, terribly hungry and achy yet too weary to sate either pain. We roll onto our side painfully and curl into a ball, willing away the pain.

Shapeless sorrow overwhelms us as we thrash against our bonds, desperate to escape them. A silencing black shadow appears at the door, growling that we shut up or they will alert the King. We shake our head vehemently, ignoring the black shadow as he moves off, shaking his head. Our chest heaves as we draw in more breath, roaring out our unbearable misery to the world.

Our teeth grit as a thousand commands ring clearly in our minds, countless murders stacking up at the King's order. Our heart cries out in protest though still we march down the hall, almost hearing the despairing cries of the victims we have deprived of life.

Failure. It stings red-hot in our minds, the word that marks our life, defining every action we have taken. Failure, failure, ___failure. _We throw I head back in frustration, a snarl rippling in our throats as we glower at the dark, unforgiving cell ceiling. Why must we always fail?

Why must ___I _always fail?

I gasp, falling backward in shock as our minds separate. Thorn breathes deeply as though to steady himself, swaying very slightly on his feet. Our gazes meet, an understanding beyond words passing between us. I shiver where I stand, unable to stand the emotion behind it. I wish so alike that red dragon of before to flee, to simply run away from it all. Thorn breaks the stare by bowing his head grimly, a sour twist curling the corner of his mouth. Murtagh stands, otherwise forgotten, by his dragon's shoulder, puzzled at our reactions.

Finally, I gather the breath and courage to comment, ___You didn't answer your own question. _My voice sounds shaky even to me. Thorn stares at the ground listlessly for what seems an eternity before lifting his head slowly.

___Didn't I? _he asks mirthlessly. My confused glance only causes him to shake his head. ___I cannot fail again, Saphira, _he finishes quietly. ___Yet I also cannot succeed. _

___Then run away, _I blurt. A guttural laugh forces its way past him, though he shakes his head again bitterly.

___That is failing as well. There is one way I might succeed— _

___What? _I ask unthinkingly. He fixes me with an unreadable expression.

___Kill me. _

Those two words burn in my mind, though the severity of his gaze is nearly undeniable. I step forward, the hopeful glint in his eyes reminding me of exactly what he requests. I lurch back as though stung.

___No, _I growl. ___Get away or I'll drag you back to the Varden. _I force anger into my voice, his heartbroken expression nearly causing me to take back my words. A moment later he steels himself, nodding to me once. He turns briefly as though to leave and I purposefully stride off, determined to put some distance between us. Just as I crouch to take off he steps by my side, looking at me stoically.

___I'd prefer you didn't drag me there, _is all he says, walking forward. Murtagh follows slowly at his heels, equally incredulous as I. Thorn lends him his right shoulder to climb up atop him, the young man wordlessly seating himself on his back. I shake my head, considering a retort before deciding it futile. I march after him, ready to turn him over to the Varden.

**Chapter end notes:**

Hurray, only took two tries to get this "right"! xD

Wow, 70,000 words... or close. ;) (Not sure since it doesn't show up yet but I'm guessing it'll go over the 70,000 word mark at this point. xD) It's cool to break this mark; and certainly the most chapters I've had for a single fanfiction. Couldn't have done it without you guys for sure, and I definitely hope you'll continue to read and enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it. :) Thanks again.

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'___What secrets are you hiding?'_

******Thorn**

There is a great mercy in thoughtlessness.

To the one who has never experienced the torture of a great number of burdens laden on your back, thoughtlessness is merely a state of boredom. It is nothing of consequence, and therefore nothing to be appreciated. That thoughtlessness is synonymous with emptiness is a grave mistake, for it was in that moment when my worries ceased that a greater fulfilling of myself broke through.

My steps slip away; the rocking motion consequently caused by them vanishes, revealing only the simple necessities of breathing. My heart's beating fills my ears, the gentle whooshing of my breath syncing with it as I move. Every torment of Galbatorix's wounds disintegrate into the very air, leaving behind the jolting pain that races down my back, the jarring motion of walking on sorely beaten bones, and the painful nuisances of reality.

For once in my life, I do not think about whether or not I will survive to complete the King's mission. I don't try and think of what will happen to me, or Murtagh, or consequently everyone else if I follow through with this. For once, the burden lightens, borne off in my quiet and drifting, waiting to be carried once more.

I do not rush to reclaim it, instead embracing the cool calm.

It is a surprise when Saphira suddenly nudges my neck, her blue eyes full of odd thoughtfulness. ___Are you sure? _they speak the words for her, her head realigning to face the foreboding gray of the Varden's camp. Murtagh's presence lingers between consideration and dread, knowing already that our chances of escaping now are terribly slim anyway. Still, the seriousness of Saphira's gaze demands an answer, and I nod once sternly in answer.

___Never more certain, _I respond boldly, never feeling more opposite my words. The brief moment of bravado seems to drain from me almost as quickly as it comes on as we proceed. Every step leaves a soft imprint in the ground, only to be carried off by the hot breeze. I glance wonderingly after our path, stolen by the wind. Shaking my head slowly, I nearly stumble after Saphira, who does not pause for my musings.

___Hopefully you have chosen wisely, _comments Murtagh grimly. I pause a moment, craning my neck around to observe his resigned expression. His half-slouched position on my back suddenly makes me aware of his vulnerability, and a coil of dread tightens in my stomach. So bold was I before, and yet I gambled with my life alone. In my mind, anyway. I lower my head shamefully, though he assures quietly, ___I would've done the same if I were you. _Lifting my head slightly, I huff once doubtfully before turning and following Saphira.

I surrender to thoughtlessness as I walk, heart rate increasing with every step.

A million whispers pour over in my mind suddenly, drenching my thoughts in theirs, enveloping me in their conversation. A particularly loud whisper repeats a single phrase, over and over, incessant in their message: ___Let us free, let us free. _Murtagh raises a hand to his head, pressing it to his forehead as though wearied. His brow furrows in concentration, eyes closed as he tries to reason with them. They do not heed his thin consolations, nor do they quiet. I attempt to silence them, though for all my mental roaring, my voice is but a whisper amongst theirs.

___My apologies, _a feminine voice consoles, ___but I cannot help you. _I look to Saphira questioningly, though her expression is unchanged, her step unwavering. Seeking out with my mind, I find hers barricaded heavily, her gaze turning sharply to meet mine when our minds briefly brush. A stab of pain jolts through my forehead, a groan escaping me at the resulting headache. She snorts once, shaking her head at me reprovingly.

___Hurry up, _she says stoutly, moving ahead. I lengthen my stride, yet her quicker step has me struggling to keep a respectable pace without appearing to be running.

___Who are you? _I dare connect with Murtagh's mind, reaching for the whisperers with him.

___You know who I am, _the same voice informs, such familiarity she stands out in stark contrast to the others. A brief hint of purple fills my senses, lilacs and tulips conjuring themselves in my mind. Amidst them, a rich violet dragoness stands, even her smoke colored thinly in purple. She bows her head once in greeting to me, the edges of our surroundings shrouded and untouchable. In the detachedness of a dreaming state, she adds, ___You would do best to stay away from the Grey Folk, no matter their pleas. _

___You speak as though you are not one of them, _I comment pointedly, to which her gaze narrows to a fearsome glare. I cower back involuntarily from the murderous look, though it softens after a moment.

___I am one of them in all the ways that matter, _is all she says, already fading as the flowers color fades as well. The dream dissolves as she walks away, becoming gray once more. Murtagh drifts back to the Eldunarya's whispering, leaving me alone in the darkness. A sorrowful sigh escapes me as I open my eyes, returning to my own body. Indefinable sadness at her departure seeps through me, though I force it aside. Following Saphira instead, I match her stride, walking abreast her for a time.

Each step becomes painstakingly slow as the sand gives way to a dusty plane, cracked earth savaged by the constant winds. The Varden mill about before us, congregating almost immediately and summoning others with shouts and cries. Heads turn to glance at us as we stride into their midst, disapproval in their eyes as they pause in their tasks, lingering wherever they may get a good viewing of me. I resist the urge to duck behind Saphira, proving only a coward in their eyes. Instead, I raise my head, lengthen my stride, and meet their gazes with my own level expression.

"Red Dragon," murmurs greet me, venomous in their quiet. I pause as Saphira does, watching dispassionately as they raise their weapons. One has the audacity to strike at me, their arrow launching clear from my neck as I duck aside. A low growl rumbles in my chest as another arrow lodges into my tail, slipping between scales and burrowing into my flesh. I inwardly grimace, though my stare only hardens as I allow it to remain as such, not daring turn my back to them to pull it out.

Instead, Saphira does.

Quite calmly, she reaches forward and plucks the nuisance from my tail, relieving the painful pressure. Spitting out the broken arrow, she turns back to face the gathered crowd. Were there a more frightening sight than an aggravated dragoness, I would not know it, and the people have the wits to back away accordingly, giving her a notable girth. When this does not seem to satisfy her, she growls, hers higher than mine and overriding it in intensity. Wordlessly, the message is clear: ___Back off_.

With obvious reluctance, archers lower their weapons, though none put away them, rather holding them at their sides readily. Kull, I notice suddenly, guard the edges of the people, standing with half-raised axes, clubs, and gauntleted fists. A powerful magical pulse—that of combined effort—suddenly renders me to my knees, my world swaying dizzily. Murtagh seems unaffected, having returned to that untouchable mental state as he silently wars with the Grey Folk's will. Desperate, I open my mind to him, a maelstrom of thoughts assaulting my own.

Most prominent is the powerful thread of magic woven between nearly a dozen figures, each pinpointed in the crowd. Their thoughts resound through my head like ice, purposefully shattering so the shards may bury themselves in me. ___Why is he here? _is the only specific thought I can glean from their conversation, the others pooling strength into the pressure forcing me to my knees. Blackness threatens the edges of my vision as I pull back, a poisonous tendril worming into my mind. I roar once in outrage, slamming hard my mental walls. Even so, they easily batter and chip away at the stone, bringing down whole segments in their quest.

___Help! _I cry to no one in particular. They press over me, surrounding me and crushing me in their grip as I struggle to hold them back.

___Here, _offers a whisper, an immense amount of strength abruptly swelling in me. I concentrate the energy, making it hard as steel around me. The power smothering me vanishes, cast aside. In its place, the violet dragoness stands, beside her seven other gray dragons.

___Avaera, _I remember suddenly. Shock and surprise coat my voice thickly as I try to find the right words of gratitude.

___Never let them know of us, _she commands with all the authority of a queen, breaking off my thoughts. The seven dragons behind her watch me with mute stares, their identities a mystery.

___I will not, _I promise her, opening my eyes and allowing the dragons to fade from my mental sight. My eyes narrow as I spot my attackers, each one standing out suddenly in the crowd as I know where to look. Elves. Of course. Their faces appear oddly haggard, breath short as they stare at me in amazement. ___The power of the Eldunari, _I muse silently. No wonder the King's strength is so with ___hundreds _at his command.

I shiver at the thought.

Murtagh sits mutely on my back, a confused thought reaching me from him as he seems to regain his senses. I shake my head infinitesimally at him, a gesture that speaks more than words. Settling back with a soft sigh, he looks around judgmentally, trying to determine whether or not he should feel threatened or calm.

I know not what to project to him, though the mental affirmation that I have the Eldunarya's good will on our side seem to bolster my confidence.

___What happened? _demands Saphira, slipping behind my barriers while I am not concentrating. I hesitate, slightly surprised that she managed to do that, before shrugging a shoulder and glancing stoically ahead, making it appear as though our conversation does not exist.

___Elves tried to break into my mind. _Venom seethes clear through my voice, as well as accusation.

She fixes me with a calculating blue eye, though tilting her head away but a moment later hides the gesture as anything but a simple glance. ___You cannot blame them for being skeptical. _

___We did not agree to come if it meant our secrets would be revealed to them, _I growl.

___We did not agree on anything if you came here, _she counters, unperturbed. ___What secrets are you hiding? _

___You should know._

The conversation ends there, her wordless retreat signaling her understanding.

I look ahead as one of the elves—a surprisingly animalistic aura surrounding him—approaches, lean form slipping through the crowd like a fox. He does not spare me a glance, rather focuses his gaze on Saphira as he approaches us. Pausing mere yards before myself, he finally looks up at me, impassivity radiating from him. His cold gaze draws my attention, our stares locking.

"___Greetings, Red Dragon,_" is all his says, voice resounding with the power of the ancient language. I glower down at him, oddly hateful towards this particular elf. Something about him appears oddly… off. Not right.

"Why have you come to us?" he continues after a moment, looking at me pointedly. The bluntness of his voice surprises me, his tone reflecting wariness. My eyes narrow fractionally and I lower my head so that our gazes may meet.

___Wrong, _whispers a voice within me. ___Danger. Beware. _

I lift my head once more, ignoring his question. He waits for several moments, his patience stretching thinner by the moment as I feel his growing frustration. In a flash, it disappears, replaced by a thick, unemotional countenance.

"Very well," he murmurs simply after a moment, backing off slightly. Animosity touches my consciousness, emanating from the strange elf. ___Blödhgarm, _the word suddenly breaks through the thoughts. Before I can ask where it has come from, the elf retreats, back boldly to me. I snort once silently, secretly suspicious.

___Be wary, _urges a voice, a whisper dredged up from the Eldunarya.

___I will, _I reply in kind, somehow uneasy to even think loudly. ___But why? _

The voice falls silent, leaving me feeling oddly alone.

___Something about him isn't right, _remarks Murtagh, speaking for the first time in a while. My claws clench fractionally in surprise before I loosen them, bowing my head very slightly in a nod.

___Indeed. Though what, I'm not certain. _The contact between us thrums all too loudly, and I feel a questing tendril of thought drift from the elves as they dare to try and eavesdrop. I secure our thoughts away, glaring at them. Saphira watches the exchanges coolly, never once inquiring what is going on. Stepping forward, she stands before me, appearing even more brilliant against their dull gray and brown armor. I shake my head fractionally to clear such thoughts, my attention drawn to a lithe, dark-skinned woman as she steps toward the blue dragoness.

"I'm assuming that you have come willingly," she says, immediately addressing me. The lack of an outright riot seems ample answer, though I nod once anyway. "Any reason why?" My stiff silence is unyielding as I lower my head slightly, looking her straight in the eye. Youthful curiosity shines beneath a layer of impassive civil duty, my brow furrowing slightly in confusion. Murtagh's thoughts supply the name to this strange young woman: ___Nasuada_.

Saphira stands aside slightly, aligning beside me, our wings just touching at the edges. My heart rate speeds up very slightly, gaze stoically set forward. "You realize," continues the woman I now know to be Nasuada, "that you have possibly signed your execution order by coming here."

She looks up at me as though searching for a rebuttal. I offer her none.

"If I may have a word," pipes in Murtagh suddenly. Nasuada's gaze strays over to him, never once betraying the same longing ache I feel resonating through him. Still, her expression falters a moment, becoming almost pitying, before shifting back to impassive. "Killing us does neither you nor Galbatorix any good. Logically thinking, you're far better off locking us up to your own devices," he continues.

"And if you try to escape?" intones Nasuada coolly in return. Murtagh bows his head very slightly, though the seriousness of his voice is unwavering.

"Then kill us." Doubtful murmurs arise in the crowd, doused by a firm growl from Saphira. She swings her gaze back to me, staring me down and searching for a lie. I stare back neutrally, showing her I mean no deceit. Eventually she looks back at Nasuada, who watches us both with a contemplative look.

"Very well," she agrees finally. My secret surprise is mirrored openly by our spectators, a particularly large Kull stepping forth.

"Lady Nightstalker." His gravelly voice carries well, silencing the quiet mutters of the gatherers. "We cannot trust them. They are not our own, and we should not treat them as such." His thick horns and broad muscles stand out in stark contrast to the leaner, far less intimidating people around him. Gauntleted fists linger at his sides, almost threatening as his head is bowed slightly in the tell-tale challenge of a Kull.

"Then I must remind you, Nar Garhzvog," rebuts Nasuada calmly, "That your clans were not our own before, and we treated you respectfully despite such." She looks at him passively, her tone betraying nothing of regret or anger at such a choice. I silently applaud her control, if suspicious of her motives for allowing us to live. "Saphira, I suspect you know already what I'm going to say—" said-dragoness bows her head once in agreement "—so I ask that you would oblige."

I frown slightly, a low growl threatening to break free in my throat. Something was said, though what…

A wave of blackness suddenly tumbles over me, a brick wall crumbling around me and plunging me into darkness. Warm jaws clasp around my neck, supporting me as Murtagh climbs off my back hastily. ___I'm sorry, _a vaguely familiar voice whispers, lost amidst the darkness.

* * *

******Saphira **

Why must he always make these things so difficult?

The crestfallen expression, submissive tone, and vaguely dutiful stance only make him more irritating, in a strange way. I cannot pity the enemy. And as he is still under Galbatorix's control, all may just be an act to infiltrate our forces. Sudden suspicious wells within me and I fix my gaze coldly on him as he walks, a dreamy expression written on his face. Pausing, he stares off unseeingly, mind elsewhere. I walk ahead, ignoring him, when suddenly his mind brushes against mine. A low growl rises in my throat as I glower at him, sending a warning mental spike straight toward his defenseless walls in answer.

He winces expectedly from the consequential pain, following me dourly as I order him to come. His expression loses focus once more, my walls lowering slightly to catch the distant hum of conversation. A hauntingly familiar sound resounds in my ears as I am forced to lower my walls further, an invasion of whispers crawling into my mind. Without allowing my expression to change despite my internal terror, I quickly slam up my walls, sighing heavily in relief as the whisperers retreat.

Thorn does not so much as blink, lost to whatever demons claim his mind.

My eyes narrow as I hope it is not Galbatorix.

Soon, the welcome sight of the Varden approaches, and I quicken my pace to get there sooner. The sudden reminder of Thorn's presence as he appears at my side is like a physical blow, reproving that by continuing along, I only doom him to capture—or worse, death.

No, I decide as the Varden swarm around us, eager to greet and threaten. I will not allow him to be killed. ___That is all, _asserts the part of me loyal to the Varden. ___He is still your enemy._ An arrow glances over him, a second embedding itself in his tail. He shifts on his feet slightly in discomfort, though otherwise he offers them no attack in return. I can almost feel the disappointment radiating off of the people at such passivity, though my admiration for Thorn's control is not unfelt. I growl silently in frustration; ___he's your enemy! _the voice screams in my head.

Reaching over and plucking the arrow from his tail, I decide, qualifies not as being too kind to an enemy, though I keep my expression emotionless so as not to have him hopeful. Despite such, the brief glance he gives me is grateful, my heart giving a painful throb. Why is he making it so difficult? Could he not just ___act _like he is my enemy for once?

I feel the sudden pulse of magic as the elven spellcasters pool their strength together, launching a quiet attack against him. A snarl ripples softly in my throat as I watch him collapse to his knees, forcing myself to stand aside and allow it to be so. Blödhgarm steps forth and speaks, trying and failing to get Thorn to explain his motives for willingly submitting. My own curiosity is resurfaced as I ponder this, suddenly interrupted by Nasuada's thoughts.

___Saphira? _Her mental voice sounds unsteady, almost awkward. My gaze flicks over to the side where she is, questioning.

___Yes, Nasuada? _I keep the skepticism out of my voice, surprised by the contact.

___Why are Murtagh and Thorn here? _The bluntness of her tone delays my answer for a time as I watch Thorn carefully, eventually shrugging a shoulder slightly.

___They came willingly, as far as I know, _I answer simply. I watch as a slight frown creases her forehead, confusion plain in her expression. ___I believe that Galbatorix sent them on some sort of mission, _I continue grudgingly. ___Though what and why it would require them being captured, I've no clue._

She nods once dubiously to herself, approaching Thorn now. ___Do you suppose that he intends us harm? _

I look at the ruby dragon skeptically for a moment, secretly trying to determine as much for myself. With a minute shrug, I respond honestly, ___I do not think so, though he could very well be hiding something. _

An unsatisfied tendril of thought reaches me. Then: ___Would you say it would be better to kill him or hold him captive? _

Instantly, the answer leaps clear in my mind, though I hold my silence, as though considering her options. When I believe an appropriate amount of time has passed, I answer. ___Capturing him could be beneficial to us, if he has good intentions. True names can be changed. _The words seem thick in my thoughts, oddly hopeful. Nasuada seems to sense the sincerity in my tone and nods once in agreement.

___Very well. _

The ensuing conversation only reiterates what we have discussed, Nasuada's thoughts brushing my own again briefly. ___You and the elves will take them to Borromeo castle. Treat them decently, but be sure that someone guards them at all times, preferably some of the elves. _

___Lock them up? _I clarify. I sense her affirmation as she closes the contact, responding to Murtagh. The entire conversation takes barely seconds, Nar Garzhvog's response to Nasuada unsurprising. I mentally quest out, feeling the elves minds. ___We are to take him to Borromeo castle. Do not harm them, _I say to them, feeling their consent. A moment later Thorn all but collapses under the strain of magic emanating from them, his legs folding beneath him. I reach out and grasp his neck, a quiet ___I'm sorry _my only words for him.

Murtagh grunts once in annoyance at his dragon being knocked unconscious, though I calmly drag Thorn along, heedless of the others watching and instead focusing on navigating the maze of tents. Two of the elves—Varûn and Narmth—seize Murtagh's arms and hasten him along after Thorn and I, Eragon walking calmly at my side.

___How the tables have turned, _he murmurs thoughtfully to himself. I can only help but nod once in agreement, thinking how only a few days ago I was held captive in Galbatorix's lair with this strange scarlet dragon.

___Perhaps in our favor, _I add. He shrugs his shoulders, appearing unconvinced.

___Perhaps, _he concedes.

Conversation ceases as slowly, the crowd disperses, the elves following in dutiful silence. Thorn groans once in my jaws, a broken sound. I wince internally, forcing myself to continue along despite such.

Enemies do not pity one another.

**Chapter end notes:**

Not my favorite, but it's more a filler than anything, and Thorphira fans will like what is about to come. :) Sorry for the wait as well; updates will be much quicker from here on out.

0

'___I'm acting as I should. You are my enemy. I am yours. Remember that.'_

___Energy. Everywhere._****

___Skin crawls. Claws stretch. Wings shudder. _

___Need. Growing. _

___Back stiffens. Eyes open. Nostrils flare. _

___Escape. Escape. _******Escape**___. _

___Warmth near. Peace. Good, warm peace. Content. Yes. Content. Need to meet. Release energy. Meet peace. Meet calm. Feel good. _

___Skin tightens. Claws curl. Wings stretch. _

___Feel near. Feel good. Want closer. Want nearer. Want near peace. Peace good. Peace calm. Calm good, too. _

___Back loosens. Eyes close. Nostrils wrinkle. _

___No good. Not peace. Restless. Unsettled. Worried. Not want. Not near. Leave. _

___Muscles clench. Mouth opens. Throat rumbles. _

___More bad peace. More restlessness. More worry. Not good. No, no. Leave, leave. _

___Body relaxes. Sigh escapes. Energy returns. _

___Good peace near. Good peace alone. No worried. No restless. No bad. Only good. Yes. Content. Need to meet. Meet soon. Meet now. _

___Shell cracks. Wings strain. Chest swells. _

___Peace leaves. Shock. Good shock? Bad shock. Scared. Worried. Excited? Meet peace; assure peace. Yes. _

___Egg wobbles. Nose presses. Legs scrabble. _

___Near peace. Peace close. Contentment close. Need. Need more. More peace. More contentment. _

___Press harder. Cracks erupt. World falls. _

___Scared. Peace far. Farther. Still close. Still there. Still good. Shocked. Scared. Concerned. Stop. Listen. Decide, decide. Meet peace? Stay safe. _

___Throw weight. Egg shatters. Tumble forward. _

___Light blinding. World strange. World? No egg. Egg broken. Sad. Egg good. Egg peace. Egg gone. Look around. Sniff air. Strange air. Not warm. Not good. Nose wrinkles. Bad air. Bad smell. Bad world. Climb back to egg. Broken egg. Whimper. Egg broken. Peace scared. Contentment gone. Sadness. Look up. Strange being. Strange creature. Kind. Gentle. Good. Peace. Contentment. Hobble closer. Careful. No upset peace. No want peace upset. Peace nears. Being nears. Contentment grows. Yes. Good peace. Want near. Want good. _

___Chirrup. Happy. Leap forward. Touch warm. Warm thing. Being stops. Being stiff. Being scared. _

___Now. Now being content. Now being understand. _

___Being one. We one. Friend. Partner. Partner of heart. Yes. Partner-of-heart understand. Content. Snuggle closer. Wait for partner-of-heart near. Partner-of-heart no speak. Partner-of-heart quiet. Sad. Want partner-of-heart happy. _

___Sigh. _

___Wait. Wait for partner-of-heart. Wait for peace to notice. Yes. Wait. _

* * *

******Thorn **

There are two infinitely valuable pieces of advice I have acquired from waking in the depths of a dungeon: never overestimate the height of the ceiling, and never stumble into an already irritated dragoness after discovering such.

Explanation enough for the gash burning hotly on my face.

Despite its source, I cannot blame her for it: it was more reflex than anything. Her remorseless glance begs to differ, though fortunately I fell onto my side from the force of the blow before she could inflict further damage. For a relatively small dragoness, she is remarkably good at throwing even a larger dragon such as myself off his feet just with a whack of her tail. Playing the dazed dragon proved a wise choice as I waited for her to move off before daring right myself, this time keeping my head slightly lower so it wouldn't hit the ceiling.

___Are all your cells this, ah, short? _I ask, glancing around. She seats herself at the opposite end, having sat nearby and discovering that that wasn't the most well-thought out position to be in. Snorting once, she glowers at me, her tail flicking back and forth irately. A freckling of ruby drops linger on the ivory spikes there, no doubt my blood.

___We aren't accustomed to dragon prisoners, _she responds frostily. Overreaction, or defensive? I wonder. For some reason the latter seems to be true, though I shake off the thought. Definitely not. She wouldn't… of course not. When she doesn't seem tempted to elaborate, I briefly duck my head aside, rubbing my cheek against my left wing to soothe the ragged cut. The membranous skin remains taut as I smear the blood on it, glancing back at Saphira after a moment. She examines her tail offhandedly, an oddly blank expression replacing the usually pensive look to her face. The moment she realizes that I am staring, though, her gaze hardens, her demeanor souring noticeably.

___If you despise me so much, why do you stay here? Why not leave? _Genuine curiosity laces my voice, staring her down expectantly. The coldness of her gaze eventually causes me to look aside, absently noticing that the walls are not the typical gray of stone, but rather a creamy-white marble. Odd or interesting, I'm not sure, though Saphira's rumbling draws my attention back to her. The heavy breath appears more a sigh than a growl, surprising me.

___Does it matter to you? _she returns.

___It's my cell, _I respond almost immediately, shaking my head at the thought of already being possessive of it. ___Of course it matters. Surely there are many other more interesting things you could be doing than arguing with me. _

___You're right, _she responds stiffly, standing. ___There are. _She turns to the wall behind her, head vanishing through it as she moves forward. The marble seems to flow around the rich sapphire of her neck, engulfing it like snow. Despite my marveling at such a thing, my sudden longing for her to stay responds faster and I step forward to stop her.

___Wait, _I blurt, risking placing my wing on top of hers as though a halting hand on her shoulder. Before a word of explanation or apology can even so much as form in my mind, she casually lashes her tail, dealing me a second gash on my opposite cheek. Agitated, I grab the last visible part of her neck, dragging her back. ___I'm tired of you just leaving or shutting up with no explanation, _I growl, dangerously low. My muscles strain against hers as she doesn't answer, claws digging into the ground to halt my progress as I force her back into the cell. With an irritated grunt, I jerk backwards, forcing her away from the wall. She sits back on her haunches, staring ahead stoically as though her face and neck were carved from stone.

For some reason, her despondent—almost petulant—expression is oddly amusing. A snort of laughter escapes me before I can contain it, her head craning over to face me. Her eyes are blacker than I can ever recall them, darkened by the shadows of the poorly-lit cell and matching her mood perfectly. ___Let go, _she orders, tone clipped. No room for disobedience, enhanced by the murderous glint to her eyes. With a roll of my eyes, I release her, stepping back slightly. She watches my movements through narrowed eyes, never once betraying any sort of empathy or kindness. Even Shruikan's anger couldn't match the blue dragoness' wrath at that moment.

I lower my head in a non-threatening gesture, feeling very small and foolish before her.

___What do you want? _she demands, resignation clear in her voice as she turns fully to face me, wings tucked to her sides and head bowed slightly to avoid hitting the ceiling as I initially did.

___Answers, _I respond truthfully. A long silence follows, her expression thoughtful as she considers. I spare a brief look around the cell, careful not to lift my head and bump it into the short ceiling. Large enough for perhaps four dragons of medium-size or roughly sixty feet across by thirty feet wide, it was only a tad smaller than the cell I occupied at the King's keep, a ceiling at least a dozen feet shorter above me. Straightening my neck slightly, I could feel the cold stone brush the top of my head, unmarred by cracks. Clearly, escaping here was about as likely as tunneling through diamond—not to mention I had no clue what awaited beyond here. Perhaps a labyrinth like the King's castle, or maybe just a dead-end. Neither seemed very hopeful, and so with a resigned sigh I focused my attention on Saphira once more as she pondered my answer. A curt nod was the closest thing to an answer I was going to get and so bravely I plowed ahead.

___Where's Murtagh? _The unexpected question catches us both by surprise; myself for not having even noticed it before, and her for the suddenness of the inquiry.

___Nearby, _she responds cryptically.

___How near? May I see him? _

___Near enough and no. _

I growl low in frustration, though her unyielding tone offers no hope of elaboration. I move on. ___Where am I? _

___Borromeo castle. _

___Surda? _I guess. She nods once. At least a three-day flight from the King's castle, presuming I didn't rest and wasn't interrupted. Difficult, at best, was the task of obtaining the green egg and returning to the King with it before my eight-day time limit was up. Well, Shruikan's eight-days. Noticing the calculating look to my eyes, her eyes narrow.

___Don't think about escaping, _she warns seriously. ___You'll be killed on spot if you so much as set a claw outside this cell, and you're fortunate enough that you weren't already killed. It would certainly make our task easier, rather than have to keep you here. We're— _

___Why are you so aggressive today? _I interrupt. Our gazes lock intensely for several moments, tension growing between us.

___I'm acting as I should. You are my enemy. I am yours. Remember that, _she answers after a pause.

___But why? _I demand in exasperation. ___What have I done to deserve your hatred? You treat me like I'm a monster. I'm not, _I add firmly when she looks at me doubtfully. ___And I want to know why. I haven't done anything to deserve this. I've only done what I've had to survive. _

___That's enough to be treated as an enemy, _she growls, though uncertainty lingers in her voice. ___Even if you were as innocent as you claim—which I doubt—there would be no point to it. You serve Galbatorix—_I flinch involuntarily at the name—___and I serve the Varden. There is no middle ground between us. No room for friendship. _

___But don't you even wish it could be so? _I force her to confront my true question, her expression softening slightly.

___It wouldn't matter _is all she says.

___Yes it would, _I insist, stepping forward. She doesn't back away as I half-expect, her brow furrowed in thoughtfulness rather than wariness. ___I'm tired of everyone denying me everything I want to know, _I continue passionately.___ I want to know that there's such a thing as lasting friendship. I want to know that some actually can be trusted. I want to know if it's even worth it, continuing on this empty hope that maybe I'll find out. And I _******know**___ you have the knowledge I've been seeking, and yet you deny it because I'm your 'enemy'. _

She lowers her head slightly, frowning at the floor in consideration. I don't press her for an answer, instead turning my back to her and moving to the far side of the cell, sitting in the corner. A rueful smile curls my lips at the thought; always seeking the corner, the shadows to hide in. The only source of light comes from a thin sliver of light peering in from the top of the wall behind Saphira, revealing cool torchlight. Standing in the shadows with the soft glow around her, I can't help but admire how marvelous she looks, innocence plain on her features as she struggles for an answer.

___You can leave, if you want, _I sigh eventually when she remains silent. Her gaze remains on the floor, lost in thought. Eventually, she looks at me, an unreadable expression on her face. I wordlessly close my eyes, bowing my head slightly and accepting defeat. When a warm body presses up against my own, though, a smile twitches at the corners of my lips, my wing draping over her body hesitantly as she lays beside me, the action conveying more than words possibly could.

___Thank you. _

A grunt. ___Don't push your luck. This is just temporary. _

___I know, _I say, bemused at her tone. ___It's enough. _

She sighs as though I am a hopeless cause, shaking her head minutely and laying it down on the ground, my eyes opening briefly to watch. A dry chuckle escapes me, rumbling in my chest before I gently slip my neck overtop hers.

___That's all I ask, _I add quietly, closing my eyes again. ___Just temporary._

But she is already asleep, my words falling on deaf ears. With a heavy sigh, I sink into a dreamless sleep as well, engraining in my memory the silent contentment of such a moment, willing myself to never forget.

The last thing I notice is the slight tremble of magic that ripples throughout the air, a flicker of surprise touching my consciousness as something great and horrible at once unfolds.

* * *

******Saphira **

Were he any less hopelessly loveable, I know that I wouldn't have spared him a second glance from the beginning. So innocently attractive in ways he didn't even seem to recognize, shrouded behind a cloak of worry and fear. Why couldn't he be frustrating and callous like Shruikan, or at least difficult to manage with as Glaedr was? A ripple of pain courses through my heart at the thought of my late master, though I force it aside with an effort. Too great is the need to focus on the present to mourn the past, and so I force my attention back to the situation at hand.

A soft snore nearly causes me to laugh, a secretive smile crossing my face as I lay beneath him. Quickly a frown overtakes my expression, reminding me that this is certainly not going to end well for Thorn or myself unless he or I ends it soon. Still, the temptation to just stay and never get up, never face the world again is so tempting an idea I can hardly summon the will to reason against it. Besides, my conscience points out dourly, his life isn't even a certain thing in the future. Neither is mine, I counter, though the point remains. I can't get attached to him; for more reasons than one.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his wing into a more comfortable position. The warm satisfaction of having him so near doesn't help my protesting conscience, nor does it fortify my crumbling resolve. I turn my head minutely, his quiet, almost possessive growl accompanied by a slight shifting of his head, wing tensing slightly. Even in sleep, it seems, he fears losing me. I sigh silently. A problem. One that needs—no, ___must_ be dealt with quickly. Otherwise, I fear, I won't be able to deny him.

Closing my eyes as well, I hope that tomorrow never comes, and that perhaps no one will notice my absence for as long as possible.

___A silver dragon sours over my head, his scales a brilliant, metallic white, glowing brightly in an unseen sun. With a swoop, he descends, landing before me and instantly transforming into a dull gray dragon, cool white eyes the only sign of his former color. Regarding me silently, he bows his head slightly in recognition, gaze losing its focus as he glances aside. 'Your decision leads not to an easy road,' he murmurs as though to himself, though somehow I know his words are intended for me. _

_'__Don't be fooled, though,' interrupts a different voice, a shimmer of purple coalescing in the dim light. Transforming quickly into a similarly gray dragon, the dragoness raises her head and looks at the former silver sternly. He snorts once, ignoring her. 'Your decision was the right one,' she elaborates. _

_'__How?' Doubt coats my voice, both dragons looking aside now._

_'__You'll just have to see,' they say in unison, vanishing. _

The encounter with the Grey Folk jolts me back to awareness, eyes flaring open and body tensing slightly. When a soft ___whoosh _of breath comes from something nearby, I am painfully reminded of my predicament, suddenly wishing I had simply walked off when I had the chance. All this mysteriousness only worsens my mood. __

___Thorn, _I urge reluctantly, shifting upright and consequently startling him awake. A halfhearted wince crosses my face as he bolts, head hitting the ceiling with a dull thud.

With a groan, he complains in a grumble, ___Couldn't there have been any higher cells available? _

___Yes, _I respond, startling him again as he looks at me quickly. His body relaxes visibly as he remembers, the firm set to my jaw lost on him. ___But they're too small for you. _

___I see, _he mutters, sounding unhappy with such news. ___I suppose you'll be leaving now? _He looks at me questioningly. I nod once, albeit grudgingly.

___Saphira, come now, _breaks in Eragon, voice shaking with something of excitement and shock. Brow furrowing, I turn wordlessly from Thorn who watches as I leave, disappearing through the wall. Not unlike the illusion the Ra'zac used to mislead potential onlookers from seeing within their lair, the marble wall is maintained by the magic built into the stone, permitting access only to the ones the creator intended to allow in and out. In this case, the elves and their magic bound it so only select members of the Varden and myself could access it. Murtagh isn't on that particular list, though I press the thought aside as I consider the urgency in Eragon's voice.

___Where are you? _I ask, weaving down the corridors and eventually reaching the castle's main entrance. A mental image of what appears to be a room higher in the castle appears in my mind, though before I can inquire further his attention veers back to something different, dazed shock preventing me from contacting him. Worried that something is wrong, I step outside, gauging where the room would be and leaping upward, rounding the symmetrical stone structure several times until I came across what appeared the right corridor. Carelessly whacking down the wall nearest the hallway and landing awkwardly inside, I close my wings, looking around at the various closed rooms. Padding down the hallway toward the one that appeared the right one, my heart freezes in my chest as a single crisp chirrup breaks through the air.

Slamming into overdrive, my heart's pace redoubles as I pause outside the door the sound had come from, breath tight in my chest as I force myself not to be too hopeful. Surely it wouldn't be… no… Eragon opens the door suddenly, sensing my presence. The bright expression on his face speaks volumes, and, were I not so focused on the implications of such, I would have been pleased at the return of a smile to his face. So dour it had seemed lately; the joy seemed to return the Eragon I knew back to me. Stepping aside, he wordlessly grants me access, my neck slowly slithering inside.

There, laying in the gentle caress of Nasuada's arms, is a small emerald hatchling, bright green eyes observing the baffled King Orrin and stunned Blödhgarm with mixed emotions. The room appears to serve the purpose of a study, papers scattered over a dark wooden desk and rough books stacked upon one another in a cabinet. The Varden's leader sits in the sole chair in the room behind the desk, her hand trembling very slightly as she traces the small curved ivory spikes along the hatchling's back. Deep contentment radiates from him as he nuzzles her back affectionately, her hand stiffening briefly before resting gently between his neck and shoulder. The remnants of the hatchling's egg remain forgotten on the floor, shards of bright green broken to release its sole inhabitant. Shock beyond words radiates from Nasuada, her gaze lifting to meet mine. A slight, uncertain smile crosses her face.

"It appears I'm a Rider," she breathes shakily, the green hatchling chirruping once in agreement.

"Understatement of the century," crows King Orrin, clapping his hands delightedly. "Our very own Nasuada—a Rider! Oh this is great news, absolutely wonderful!" He shakes his head in astonishment, eyes bright with joy. Blödhgarm stands in the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest considerately.

"Congratulations," he says finally in the low rumble of his voice. "I'll go inform the others," he adds, referring undoubtedly to the other elves. He slips around me and wordlessly departs, an oddly displeased aura radiating from him. Strange. I brush the thought aside, glancing over as Nasuada stares down at the hatchling, stroking his head lovingly.

"I never thought…" Words fail her as she bites her lip, appearing concerned to even voice her doubts aloud.

"You'll make a fine Rider," assures Eragon sincerely, Orrin's enthusiastic nod almost comical.

"A fine one indeed," he agrees. Nasuada nods uneasily, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing deeply. Her gaze strays pointedly to her left palm, a shimmer of silver visible there. She lifts her hand slightly, staring at the broken circle mutely.

"A Rider," she repeats, shaking her head slowly. "A Rider." She slumps slightly in her chair as though exhausted, holding her head with her hand. "I… I just… oh… why me?"

"Are you all right?" pipes in Orrin. She nods once minutely. An awkward pause follows, the eccentric king shuffling uncomfortably in the silence. "I'll go check on Blödhgarm and see about assembling a meeting for this evening," he adds suddenly, heading toward the door as he is evidently not needed any longer. Again, Nasuada nods slightly, myself backing to allow Orrin to exit. Eragon, however, steps closer, placing a hand reassuringly on her shoulder.

"It'll be fine, my Lady," he says, serious yet gentle. She sighs shakily.

"I hope," is all she says.

**Chapter end notes:**

And you... liked it? Hated it? Any mechanical errors? Too fast? Confused about anything? Review and I will be more than happy to correct errors/offer explanations. Thanks to those who already do. I appreciate it greatly. :)

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'___Needless to say, he's ruthless. He's taken power, and he'll never let it go.'_

******Saphira**

I leave Eragon and Nasuada alone, hoping my Rider has the common sense not to ruin things in my absence. Comforting her would be the best he could do at the moment; with luck, he will stick to only that.

Winding down the thick corridor of Borromeo castle, I cannot shake off the feeling of something dreadful about to occur, my mind focused on other things. I know Nasuada is fully capable of being a Rider; and beyond the shock and slight fear of such a thing, I know she knows it as well. There is strength in her, strength tempered by trials and genuine care. A faint mental brushing, like a whisper of breath against my consciousness, sends a shiver running down my back, and I hasten my pace accordingly. Arriving once more at the gaping, roughly-formed hole in the wall, I throw myself outward, wings rippling like sails as I swoop around and land on the ground with a muted thud.

A flash of blue fur sweeps across the corner of the castle, followed shortly by the elusive consciousness as it touches minds with me once more. Questing out to solidify the contact, I feel barriers of a sort never encountered before, as though other mental barriers are constructed from stone, these from bones. Stacked and arranged to allow only slivers of consciousness through, they hush and mute words from the being's consciousness, and I stagger at the feel of their mental voice. ___Be gone, _it urges me in a voice reminiscent of a muted roar, thrusting the bony barrier in my face. I recoil and refortify my own mental barriers, shaking my head furiously to clear it. A politely shocked notion reaches my thoughts as a sickly tendril of thought winds after mine, eluding my barriers and touching minds with me.

___Terribly sorry, Brightscales, _it murmurs with such sincerity it is impossible to doubt. Dazed, I nod once mutely, it withdrawing with a complacent mental smile. Too confused to look further into the shocking presence, I wander aimlessly back around to the front of the castle, observing how the stones of it fit together smoothly in an effort to distract my mind from the sickening image. Like pieces of an immense jig-saw puzzle, they wedge tightly between one another, smoothed by constant battering of sand. Almost as though it knows my thoughts, a gust of sand assaults the walls, their surfaces taking the brunt of it without a groan of complaint. I raise a claw and experimentally tap the stone; impressively, it doesn't budge, only shifting infinitesimally when I apply a bit of pressure. Lowering my claw once more, I snort and nod my head to it, pleased.

"Fine workmanship, isn't it?" observes a mild voice admiringly, appearing at my side in the form of King Orrin. "For nigh on two hundred years this castle has stood, unblemished. It's a bit plain, I'll admit, though competency must take precedence to beauty." He pats a stone almost lovingly, looking up at the enormous structure and shaking his head. "Many fights it's survived; you'd be amazed how many a siege it has fended off through sheer good building." He bobs his head in a nod, surprisingly serious and informative for once.

___It's impressive, _I agree, still a bit off from the mental… attack? Retaliation? I'm not even sure what to call of it, thought the sickly sound of bones being shoved forward lingers as though it truly occurred. He looks at me as though sensing my confused mood, raising his eyebrows in almost comical questioning.

"Are you all right?" he asks, concerned. I nod once, not meeting his doubtful look as I step around him, feeling smooth sandy-dirt beneath my claws. Heat rises up from the dark, golden-brown earth, my muscles relaxing slightly to the familiarly hot touch. A glance upward reveals crisp tan clouds, promising only an overcast afternoon rather than a rainy one. I sigh contemplatively, wondering what to do next. A rattling of bones in my mind jolts me forward as I lash my tail against the hard-packed earth, gouging a slight streak. Heedless of my annoyance—and secretly, fear—the bones back aside, a whisper speaking softly in my mind.

___Be wary, dragoness, _it warns, a distinctly feminine tone to it. Before I can question her, though, the voice vanishes, my mind oddly blank without the disturbing image of bones and the intriguing voice of the female. Shaking my head slowly, I allow my feet to carry me along, forcing myself to ignore all images aside from the sands beneath me, the stone castle to my right, and the dusky sky above me.

A time passes—how long I neither know nor care—as I walk amongst the Varden, laid out before Borromeo castle, and wonder. People mill around me purposefully, though my aimless gait does not distract them from their other duties. They mercifully give me a wide girth as I stride amongst them, deadened gaze sweeping out over them. A scarlet flash sends a painful throb through my heart as I look away, unwilling to even think of ___him_. Still, eventually, my thoughtless walk only drags me closer, until again I stand before the castle. Dusk has colored its gray-black walls in tan light, beatific almost in the setting sun. Descending into the lowermost parts and consequently dungeons, I stare around the blank corridors, just large enough to compensate for a dragon.

An overwhelmingly tempting urge to visit Thorn overcomes me, though with a monumental effort I push the thought aside. I must resist that temptation, for were any others to discover the brief kindness between us… I stride away, moving down the sometimes narrow passageways, gaze roaming over the walls detachedly. Chilling silence penetrates all, ruining any sense of peace and vanquishing any familiarity with the place. All is dimly lit by torches, not even guards patrolling these parts as nearly all cells lay empty. Those I do pass are few and far between, with only a prisoner or two to speak of. Their defiant glares spear my soul as they await their inevitable execution; having denied the opportunity to join the Varden's ranks (with approval from elven mind-reading) they await their fate in sneering silence.

Eventually, I come across a fairly familiar cell, positioned so tightly in a corner it is impossible to believe that there is any way to barrel through the wall, magical assistance or no. Though notably larger than the other cells—and even stocked with some basic pleasantries—it houses only one resident, indisputably in a foul temper as I approach and peer inside the thick metal door. A sharp growl escapes me as a very uncomfortable mental spike snatches my consciousness, the equivalent of a rough pinch as I jerk back.

"Where is Thorn?" he asks, an outraged look in his eyes as he contradictorily sits calmly in one corner atop a finely made chair. His eyes glower with hate as he observes me, needing as well as demanding an answer. I shrug a shoulder fractionally in answer; I can almost hear the snarl rise in his throat as he stands and strides over to the door. Passing two other chairs—cushioned and well-crafted—as well as a smooth pallet, he moves over to the bars, glaring at me harshly. I tighten my mental barriers, though unafraid that he will dare attack. Magic woven so tightly around here by the elves is not to be tempted; only the feral look in his eyes sends trepidation through my consciousness.

"Where is he?" he repeats in a deadly-calm tone.

___No where you can reach, _is all I say, wincing slightly as he throws out another mental spike. A sadistic smile appears on his face as he pulls back, yanking up mental barriers against me. I growl low in annoyance at the prodding, refusing to be tempted to harm him. ___Don't mess with me, Murtagh, _I warn severely.

"Tell me where Thorn is," he returns. Having adopted the loose gray tunic and black breeches left out for him to use, the rest of his clothes lay in a pile beside an untouched tray of food. Though I know no poisons lace the substances—and quite possibly he knows as well—the defiance there is clear, and I roll my eyes mutely when I spot it. A chunk of bread, an assortment of grapes, apples, and pears, and a piece of now-cold mutton sit neatly on the plate, undoubtedly exactly as they were set. A mug of water sits beside it—similarly full.

___You will starve here if you do not trust us to eat, _I point out coolly. He all but bares his teeth, no where near as civil as before separated from his dragon and in our hands now.

"If you do not tell me where my dragon is, then so be it."

___You're being unrealistic. _

"I'm being completely realistic!" he explodes, hands jerking on the bars to get my attention as I turn to leave. "Tell me where my dragon is!"

With an expressionless look, I meet his gaze, seeing the animosity and confusion there. Sighing deeply, I turn and walk away, hearing the faint whine of protest as he clutches the bars before storming back to the chair. My heart aches with a sudden twinge of deception, feeling wrong to be so… callous towards him. Though not intentionally, I cannot deny the obstinacy which has claimed me, guilt nearly overwhelming me as I move off.

My feet traitorously carry me back to Thorn's cell; I breathe in deeply, not daring enter for fear of stirring up a conversation of any sort, of any interaction at all. No, I turn back, closing my eyes against the hopeful look he flashes me as I simply walk away. With nothing noteworthy to explore below, I ascend back to the ground level, glancing around the grounds of Borromeo castle as storm clouds conjure themselves above. They swirl the hot air steadily, swelling with water and air. My eyes rove over the barren landscape, a weary sigh escaping me.

"What?" asks a voice coolly from my side. I shrug slightly.

___For a desert, it rains fairly frequently here, _I mention dryly. Eragon gives an amused huff of agreement as he comes around my left side, features worn as though by many sleepless nights. Dark circles ring his eyes; haggardness hollows the flesh of his face. ___Are you all right, little one? _I ask, concerned. He looks at me, icy blue eyes fogged almost entirely by that potent white haze. Still, he shrugs and looks aside after a moment, evidently unperturbed.

"Fine," he assures insipidly. His gaze travels over the land as well, and I watch as his brows knit in irritation as he fails to pick out details. "And I suppose it does," he adds, glancing upward and observing the clouds unseeingly. "Though, even the desert has to get its nourishment from somewhere, doesn't it?" The stiff logic to his words prevents any emotion from showing through, my concern not just for his physical health redoubling. I gently nudge his back forward, urging him ahead.

___Come. Let's have a walk, _I insist mildly. ___We never did discuss why you were acting so strangely. _I pointedly leave out the word 'earlier', and his expression darkens with understanding as he looks further aside. I crane my neck around to look at him, though he refuses to meet my gaze. Abruptly turning stormy azure eyes onto me, he shrugs.

___I do not think I am acting strangely, _he says. His eyes flash with an unspoken emotion—defiance?

___You've been locked away, Eragon. _His frown deepens. ___I can't understand you anymore. What's happened? What has Galbatorix done to you? _

Had I been unassisted by our mental bond, I would not have noticed how he subtly shut off his emotions from me, providing only a sliver of access to his thoughts. I rumble softly in discontent; he does not seem to notice. Instead, he works his jaw as though trying to force the words out, closing his eyes for a moment as he pauses. I stop as well. After a moment, however, he recovers himself, and again the callousness is there, a barrier set thick between us. Sand pads softly beneath my feet; it offers no comfort as a vague mist sweeps over us.

"He did nothing to me." There is no room for argument, yet disagreement flashes across my expression as he walks ahead.

___Then who did? _I persist, undeterred so easily. Eragon attempts to escape by rounding the corner of a tent; I reach forward and grab the back of his tunic, growling quietly. ___Tell me, Eragon. You're not going to walk away from this without answering me. _

"What do you want me to say?" he growls, equally dangerous.

___Who did this to you? Who changed you like this? _I stare at him coldly, demandingly, yet as frustrating as his half-brother he only smiles vaguely and looses himself from my jaws.

"___I don't know, _Saphira. I have no idea what you're talking about; if anyone, it's ___you _who's changed." For a moment, the knowing look on his face sends a cold jolt of fear through my chest, certain he is aware of the intolerable kindness shared between Thorn and I. But after a moment, the look dissolves into one of satisfaction as he interrupts my dazed silence as acceptance. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he says with cold politeness, as though speaking with another. Someone as bitter and callous as he, I think unhappily, stepping aside to allow him through.

Cold rain patters along my sides, dousing my spirits further. Even the fire within me finds no reason to be summoned, and thus I shiver slightly in the cold, willing myself to ignore it and move on. Still, it claims me, unrelenting, unending, demanding my attention in its feeble but persistent assault. I bow my head forward as it sprinkles down, soon becoming hazy sheets that soak every tent in its path. My quiet groan of utter confusion and even despair goes unheeded to it, and I feel anger at such creeping along my side. The thought that I am angry at rain, however, soon smothers such a feeling, leaving only icy hollowness in its place.

The chilling image of stark-white bones fills my mind, accompanied by the drone of a whisperer, and lastly the faint echoing of Eragon's words. All torment me; my eyes search the world helplessly for some anchor to steady my thoughts on, to simply forget the rest and let go of my problems. But none exist, and soon I find myself drowning in the torrent of emotions, vaguely feeling my legs fold beneath me as rain continues to dance over me.

___If anyone, it's you who's changed. _

The horrible truth of those words proves too much; I lurch upright, breathing heavily, and surge upward, bee-lining back for the only one who has any possible answers.

* * *

He is far too pleased for his own good to see me than I am to see him.

Delight glints in his eyes as I slink through the wall, water casting deep shadows beneath and around my scales, accentuating every curve and line of my body. Hungrily, his gaze traces every one, my serious look not fazing him in the slightest. ___Thorn, _I speak after a time, my voice quavering oddly. ___That _draws his attention; immediately the almost lustful look transforms into one of deep concern, his quiet rumble a question. I look away so I do not have to meet the full image of him, unable to take such as I stare at the wall. My own uneven breathing seems to heighten his concern; when I do not speak to fill the silence, he does.

___What is it? And what are you doing here? _He takes a step forward; reflexively, I snarl at him, the emotions from earlier surfacing briefly to rippling anger. The hurt expression that crosses his face before he can hide it tears apart my resolve—I throw back my head and let out an agonized roar. His expression falls as he backs into the corner slightly, evidently confused and startled by my reaction. I hold the roar for as long as my lungs will allow, panting heavily once I must inevitably end such and staring at him with pained eyes. Questions fill my mind, surfacing and overflowing as I struggle to keep a hold of my sanity. Drawing in a deep breath that nearly ends in another roar, I suppress the desire and instead stare him straight in his ruby eyes, enunciating each word clearly to keep my attention focused on anything but their meaning.

___What is it? _

___Eragon, Thorn. _

___What's wrong with him? What did Galbatorix—_he flinches—___do to him? _He looks back, appearing more the confused hatchling than I can ever recall. Instead of slightly larger than I, he appears quite the contrary, his gaze meeting mine boldly despite such. For a long, ponderous silence, he stares at me, thinking, nostrils flaring minutely with every breath and lip curled up slightly in consideration.

___I'm not certain, _he begins slowly, in a tone that would be more practically addressed to a frightened animal than I, ___but I believe it has something with being near the King—_

___Call him Galbatorix, _I order, ignoring his cringe as a jolt visibly winds down his back. He rolls his shoulders, stretching his wings slightly and evidently struggling to decide.

___I believe it has something with being near Galbatorix that affects him so, _he finally breathes, the wince in his voice enough to almost make me regret my command. I listen silently, however, as he continues, shallow breaths quick and even. ___The Kin—Galbatorix has always been a man who I will never fully understand. He has… strange… influences on the things around him. If I were to take an honest guess as to what your Rider is experiencing, then it is a side-effect of being with Galbatorix—_a slightly deeper, steadying breath as he closes his eyes to ignore the jarring pain—___that has caused any unusual behavior. _

___So you're saying Galbatorix is at the heart of this, _I summarize. He nods once curtly, claws tight on the stone beneath them as he visibly struggles not to react to the word. The strong muscles, grown prematurely along his body, tense and loosen as he moves, his gaze never leaving mine. ___How long will this last? _I ask after a time, notably calmer that I know at least that much. Thorn shifts uncomfortably on his feet; my anxiousness returns as I watch him, waiting and expectant.

___I'm afraid I cannot say. Though it will go away—eventually, _he assures quickly at my murderous look. Not directed at him, obviously, though fully intended for the ___King. _Galbatorix was going to suffer—preferably dearly. ___Anything else you need to, ahh, ask me? _he asks, albeit rather shyly. His wings stay close to his sides—protectively. I stare at him appraisingly, fixing him with a quizzical look.

___What else do you know about Galbatorix? _I ask slowly, genuinely curious. He cannot withhold a cringe as another piercing shiver jolts down his spine. Shrugging a shoulder painfully, he meets my gaze.

___What do you wish to know? _The look in his eyes is severe; tortured answers lie there, I know, though which to ask… more accurately, which to ask ___first_…

___He's sane, _begins Thorn without prompting, my startled look lost on him as he glances unseeingly over my shoulders. Ruby eyes glazed over, he speaks from memory, a low monotonous tone concealing all emotion. ___Very much so. Reasonable, even, if you consider all other faults aside. He knows how to rule. Charismatic in the public eye, yet vile beneath it to those who disobey him. _A slight wince is the only sign to betray emotion.___ He also knows how to keep a hold on power, _he continues dully. ___Yet he's every bit the demon you think him to be. _His eyes blaze as he looks at me, their inner scarlet alight with indescribable agony, very little of which seems from physical torment.

___He's not afraid to dirty his hands for his work, though he prefers someone else to put his devices to work. All but the worst. _A sour smile curls his lips as he shakes his head. ___That he always does himself; he'd never trust someone else to do it horrifically enough. _He flicks me a questioning glance; I shake my head slowly.

___Don't, _I warn. ___No memories. _ He nods once mutely, understanding passing between us. ___Needless to say, he's ruthless. He's taken power, and he'll never let it go. _

___Have you ever noticed any weaknesses in him, though? _I persist, knowing something valuable must be hidden in Thorn's thoughts. His expression, however, becomes almost amused, a twisted smile crossing his face.

___In that aspect, I know as much as you, _is all he says.

**Chapter end notes:**

I know, I know, it's short, but that was all that I wanted to reveal at the moment and adding Thorn's part would've made it too long. So. Thank you very much, faithful readers and reviewers, and I will continue to do my best to update as much as possible. Currently several of my fics are undergoing revisions, so updates for this might be delayed a bit more than usual for now. Well, since that's all I have to say for now, thanks for reading! :)


	4. Shruikan

I meticulously picked the bloody bits of flesh clinging to my large boar, savoring the juicy tang of its delectable flavor. Licking my lips in a satisfied manner, I seized a rib bone and chewed it slowly, tasting marrow. Swallowing the remains, I grabbed another bone, and another, until nothing but bloody specks remained of the creature.

Glancing around suspiciously, I beheld the darkness of my prison. To most, it would appear to be powerful, even beautiful, but to me, nothing would change the invisible shackles that bound me to it. A spacious room, made entirely of marble, spread out before my narrowed orange eyes. An empty hearth sat in the center of the left wall, burning charcoals collected at its base. Torches lined the walls, providing dismal light in the deadened room. Perhaps the most surprising feature, more lack thereof, was the throne. The entire room was open, a gray plain of cool marble. The glowering embers of the dying fire in the hearth added an eerie glow in the corner.

My ___master _is no where in sight, a welcome reprieve from his oppressive presence. He is my puppeteer and I am the lifeless puppet, a cruel façade formed by the admirable goals he'd set falsely. I knew that, past the traitorous words, there was no hope for the future, gloomily resigning myself to this fate. I calmly obey him for fear of inflicting more trouble upon innocents whom I've no wish to harm.

The heartless, conniving man that controls me is indeed the tyrant of a king, Galbatorix. My gaze drifts over the bolted door, far too small for one as large as I. Galbatorix had deemed that I wasn't allowed to leave the throne room, therefore the door was built to accommodate only humans. I silently mused that it was out of fear of escaping that he did such. Perhaps he somehow believed I knew how to escape the binds he had placed upon me. As much as I would love to say I know, the awful truth of the situation was grim.

I don't.

I lazily flick my tongue out, testing the air for intruders. The burning embers first draw my attention, though I quickly skim past them. Several guards are posted at the door, I sense amusedly. Galbatorix's precautions to make sure I don't escape exceed the necessary ones, though he obviously is taking no chances with me. The guards were firm, yet I could sense that they were rather bored with their current duty. I didn't blame them.

Stiffening abruptly, a new scent wafted towards me and I stifled a groan. The guards tensed instantly, the light scuffling of their movements drifting to my ears. I watched with my eyes narrowed in suspicion as the door was opened sharply, a tall, cloaked man entering. The guards dutifully shut the door, fear emanating from them. I snorted derisively and stared at the man with hating eyes. I growled low.

A mistake, the man deemed, as I was shot by a terrible, electrifying sensation. My entirety was coursing with power for a moment before going rigid and collapsing beneath me. I hit the floor with a heavy thud, dulled by the marble. Sneering up at him, I gasped as the sensation returned, leaving me writhing upon the cold floor.

"Foolish beast," the man snarled. I choked and gasped as the unbearable shocking feeling drifted away. Shaking slightly, I rose to my feet, towering before him. Despite my superior size, I felt inferior and powerless against him. In a daring flare of bravado, I shot a fireball at him. He deflected it casually with a flick of his hand. I snarled in irritation. "You don't hurt your master," the man drawled. Approaching me, he muttered something under his breath. My sight vanished, replaced by blackness and I moaned helplessly, glancing around blindly. "One week, no sight; longer if you're bad," the man, on my left side, hissed. I swung my head from side to side, nostrils flaring smoke, eyes open yet unseeing.

Deciding that I was in a losing situation, I reluctantly dipped my head in submission and said, ___yes, master, _hoping to appease him. I suppose the lack of a whip hitting my side could be taken as success. I simply wanted to walk back to my corner, curl up, and forget about it all. The man, or I should say, ___beast_ that was Galbatorix was moving before me as I heard the light thudding of his boots meeting ground. He halted some inches from my face, a cruel hand suddenly placed upon my brow. I winced, jerking back from the cold contact.

Too late.

He was in my head, reading my thoughts like an open book. Erecting barriers against him was futile and energy-consuming. Instead, I debated whether to cry out from the pain accompanying his abrupt entrance, or to be silent, depriving him of that pleasure. Silence is golden, I suppose.

My skull was on fire, my head throbbing painfully. Each thought was like a broken shard of glass, formerly a working whole, shattered upon his intrusion. I swayed dangerously before collapsing heavily to the ground, panting softly. When I realized I was wincing, I forced my face into an impassive mask, hiding my pain. Glaring in the direction I judged him from his scent, I staggered to my feet yet again.

"You really are a worthless, pathetic dragon," Galbatorix commented in a bored tone. I was silent with fury, pain, and fear. His hand was upon my snout once more, this time feeling over the ridge between my eyes. I considered shaking it off or backing away but finally decided both would be pointless. I humbly bowed my head, showing my defeat. Dark chuckling met me and I stifled a hiss of agitation. "But I suppose you are better than nothing."

His voice was emotionless as he said it, though I could vaguely sense the fleetest thought of pain from him. Before I could determine whether it was his or my own, it was gone. So. He still longed for his dragon. I felt betrayed, as I was, and truly worthless in that instant.

Back when I was merely a hatchling, Galbatorix had instilled that my rider had abandoned me like a worthless dog. He had then—generously, as he described it—taken me in and offered me a new life.

Some life.

For years, I truly had believed that my rider had not wanted me, the thought driving me to almost take my own life several precarious times. Galbatorix pulled me back, lying through his teeth of how I needed to stay alive.

And so I did.

Now, I truly wonder whether death would've been better than this. My true rider, peace, freedom . . . definitely, I decided resolutely. I sighed despairingly. I didn't even have ___that _option available to me. If I tried, Galbatorix would bring me back and torture me, for that I was certain. Then again, perhaps he didn't care for me at all and would allow me to do such a thing. But, I finally realized gloomily, he needs a ___dragon _and so, I was still of use to him.

I heard receding footsteps and a door open with a soft rasp, allowing him to leave. I snarled distastefully, wishing myself to leave with him and forget this forsaken room. But I cannot, because I am his slave and he is my master.

It's amazing how simple it is to accept doom when it is upon you.

Slowly, I inched my way back to the right back corner of the room, trying to gauge in what direction I was actually heading. My tail, spiked threateningly at the tip, swayed behind me, helping to determine which way was my corner. After several cautious moments, I bumped softly into the wall. Feeling around with my head and tail, I realized that this was, indeed, my corner. From the years I had lounged and sulked in this corner, it had developed a small, curved impression from my weight. Granted, the floor would yield little more than that, being marble, but I was still somewhat satisfied.

Settling myself, I glanced around pointlessly, the deadening darkness shrouding my sight to nothing. I sighed resignedly and crossed my paws in front of myself, resting my head upon them moments later. They were cold but smooth, a suitable pillow as I closed my useless eyes. Instead of allowing sleep, I thought back to where it all went wrong.

The warm, living cocoon that was my egg was a soft and soothing presence, humming with magic and protection. I was content to lay curled inside peacefully, feeling myself being moved many times. I was held in the arms of numerous beings, their presences mingling with mine in a manner I didn't approve. So, I remained in my egg, satisfied to remain this way. It seemed that an eternity passed before it happened.

I was resting, my small form curled up inside my comfortable shelter, yet I was always aware of my current position. In this instance, I was on something solid, feeling it the perfect place to rest. I felt a foreign being enter the area at which my egg was being kept. It was strange, their presence, for it was different then all the others whom had come to pass. Theirs was gentle, yet strong and compassionate. When they came in contact with my egg, a flash of satisfaction and contentment overwhelmed me. I hummed inside my shell, curling closer to their contact.

Instead of feeling protecting, my egg suddenly felt confining and restricting. I wanted to meet this being, and, I realized happily, to be their partner. Their dragon. I threw my weight from side to side, my egg rocking back and forth violently. A soft rasping sound, that of a gasp, was heard from the being, as well as surprise emanating from them. I lunged to my left side, then the right, jabbing my head at the egg's shell. I panted, pausing to rest, and I felt disappointment emanate from the being.

With new-found determination, I threw myself to the right, satisfied when a light cracking sound emitted from it. A sharp intake of breath came from the being near me, though I was too determined to break free of my shell to care. Instead, I lunged fervently at the crack, making it slowly larger and branching off to make more cracks. With a titanic effort, I threw my entire weight at the cracks, a flare of bright light suddenly blinding me. I chirped, astounded by this new world as the warmth of my egg vanished. I staggered blindly before promptly collapsing, another small chirp working its way from my jaw.

Mystification was coming from the being, their entire form rigid with shock. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision as it was blinded. After several long moments, I managed to keep them open and look around with wide, curious eyes. Dimmed light cast itself around the small room, falling upon numerous strange objects. My wings were sticky with the fluid inside my egg so I licked them clean, forgetting the other being's presence. A tentative footstep, the dull thud as it hit the ground, came nearer to me, drawing my attention. I chirruped, staring up at the being with curious eyes.

They paused, smiling down at me with shock, awe, and immense pleasure. I hopped a step back as they came closer, head bobbing up and down as I examined the creature. It was large, and tall, standing on two legs. I glanced at my own, indigo legs, surprised with their color. Glancing back at myself, I realized that I was a rich, almost kingly, indigo. Humming satisfyingly, I watched as the being came even closer.

Crouching, they reached forward carefully as I backed cautiously. They chuckled, then spoke softly. "It's okay. I won't hurt you." The voice, so warm, nurturing, and masculine by its tone, was inviting. I drew forward again, allowing them to reach towards me.

Suddenly, something in the corner flew open and I fell back in surprise. The being gasped, fright and horror radiating from them, and I was panicking with pitiful chirps as two dark presences entered the room. Before my wide, horrified eyes, the first being was cut down by the other two, a small sack enveloping me. I struggled inside the itchy, confined area, alarmed and confused. Something whacked me once in the side and I yelped, struggling more vigorously.

I heard dark voices speaking rapidly, unease and anxiety radiating from every inch of the surrounding area. A hand reached inside of my sack and I nipped it, chirping. A muffled cry of pain reached me before the sack was unfolded slightly and something heavy collided with the back of my head. Stars burst before my shocked eyes and I drifted into unwelcome darkness as the sack came back over me.

I shuddered upon that fateful memory, the air stiff and tense around me. I shivered, though not from cold, but rather fear. ___Get a grip, _I berated myself, though I was unable to stop myself from shuddering. I opened my eyes, darkness still before me. Swinging my head around, I flicked my tongue out, testing the air. I was alone, not even guards posted at the door.

___That's odd, _I thought warily. Sniffing the air, I confirmed that no one was near or in the throne room. ___Strange, _I mused. Without warning, another memory sprung unbidden to my mind.

I groggily awoke, groaning and shifting on something cool and prickly. Moving again I felt the same pricking feeling. Tentatively, I opened my eyes, finding the dark beings watching me unblinkingly. I chirped in fear, backing slightly to find something tied around my neck. I glanced at it curiously, tugging at it to find that it was connected to something else. A tree, I realized, as I followed the line. I chirruped again, trying to tug it off, but it wouldn't budge.

I growled, glaring up at the two beings with hating eyes. I could sense wariness coming from them, seated by a blazing fire. Glancing around, I noticed belatedly that it was dark out, night. The two beings suddenly conversed quickly, saying words indiscernible to my confused mind. One was a large, cloaked figure with brown hair poking out from under the hood. Cruel, wicked eyes gazed at me from under the rim of the black cloak and I backed fearfully. The second being, only slightly shorter than the first, was just as threatening. Also wearing a concealing cloak, the being was shadowed to darkly for me to distinguish its features.

The first being rose, towering over me and approaching threateningly. Seating themselves before me, the being drew a small, sharp object from its cloak. With a movement to fast for me to follow, they slashed the object across my brow, pain erupting from the wound. I cried out in agony, feeling the being place their own bloody hand upon my bleeding brow. Chanting something in a dark tongue, darkness flooded over me in an agonizing wave of pain. I roared, though it was rather pathetic, and writhed under their grip. Withdrawing slowly, the being emanated success.

Pain clouded and fogged my young mind, everything a blurry cascade of agony. I tried to press it aside but it overwhelmed me. After several futile moments, I stopped, panting, as the pain became a steady throbbing inside me. I gazed down, shocked and terrified, as the indigo coloring of my paws was washed over with black. Craning my small neck back, I watched as my tail, back, and wings were similarly dyed. Lastly, my vision went entirely black before flaring back.

Blood-lust and power radiated from every inch of my being. I struggled to press them back but it was of no use as my innocence was stolen. I glared up harshly at the being, who was smiling in success and snarled venomously, slashing outwards. I was satisfied when a surprised yelp came from them. Before I could latch on properly, though, I was thrown backwards, slamming into the tree I was tied to brutally.

I staggered upright, swaying uneasily. Growling menacingly, I attempted to attack the being once more, but was met with a strong kick to my chest. I yelped as I hit the tree again, my vision flashing black as my head collided with it. Refusing to be defeated so easily, I rose for the third time, lunging forward and trying to grab the being. I realized belatedly that I was still tied to the tree and was yanked backwards a moment before I would've reached them. I threw my weight against the tree violently, frustrated and terrified. The beings chuckled at my display, amusement and triumph emanating from them. I snapped my jaws threateningly, a small click emitting from them.

An unwelcome presence suddenly thrust itself into my mind, breaking through the last barrier I had set up against being controlled by the power. A roar suddenly built inside my throat, rumbling loudly before breaking free in one that defied my age. The presence instilled false memories in my mind. How foolish was I to believe that the other could possibly be my ___rider? This_ was my rider. My master. I was to obey my master. There were no questions. I would not hurt master, nor would I leave master. Master would keep me safe if I obeyed master. Yes, master was my savior and I would be my master's.

And I am Shruikan.

That was the last thought that the new being forced upon me before their presence left in an agonizingly painful withdrawal. Untying me from the tree, my master backed again, standing at full height. "Come," master commanded in an authoritative voice. And so I came, hobbling to their side dutifully. "Stop," they then ordered. I halted. Chuckling darkly, my master smiled wickedly to the other being, darkness emanating from them both. Instead of defying it, I embraced it, feeling powerful. "You are my dragon, Shruikan. If you obey me, I shall let you live." I nodded slightly in submission while my master laughed aloud. "Dragons," they—___he, _I suddenly realized—commented to the other being. Both stared at me with dark eyes as I stood, defeated, before their penetrating gazes.

A wave of darkness assaulted me and I succumbed to it, falling to the ground, unconscious.

My head shot up from my paws in a quick sweep. I glanced around warily, trembling more violently now. Quickly flicking my forked tongue, I was relieved to find that no one was around. With an uneasy breath, I settled my head back upon my crossed paws, panting quietly. ___It's in the past, _I tried to convince myself. ___Get over it. _But no matter how much I told myself this, the memories assaulted me anew.

The days were long and cold in the mountains. Master was often angry at me, yelling at me curse words. I backed away like a whipped puppy, trying to appease him. He was unpleased. I was beaten to toughen my scales, and I was starved to increase my durability. Merely a month old, I was left to fend for myself from predators, sometimes forced to confront them when I would cower away from the fight. I barely managed to break free of the rope binding me to a tree when confronted with a bear, narrowly avoiding being killed. Master found it amusing; I was too terrified to eat that night.

Master's partner—Morzan, he called him—was hardly better. Baen, Morzan's enormous crimson dragon, was my 'teacher'. More often than not I was simply his chew toy, a way for him to put me down while venting his own displeasure. Once, he kidnapped me with Morzan, though when I managed to escape, bloody and broken, to my master, I realized it had all been a ploy to see if I would survive.

Baen's sessions with me were long and difficult. He had me try and lift rocks far surpassing my ability and would burn my legs if I failed to do the impossible task. I sincerely tried to lift the boulders but they were far too large. I was left to limp back to master and pray that I wouldn't be beaten. The burns were sometimes so severe I was unable to walk, forced to stay wherever Baen left me, unable to fly at such a young age.

I learned that 'come' meant 'I'm angry at you.' Knowing this, I hid in trees and caves, only to be found by Baen. He would then uphold the meaning of 'come' before dragging me back to master. Master's name was forbidden to me, and if I said it, I didn't eat for a week. It was one of his numerous ways to control me.

Months of such harsh treatment passed painfully slow. Tied to a tree every night, I was desensitized from cold and heat by the raging weather I endured during those sleepless nights. My scales, tainted deep black, were hard and smooth, toughened by our sessions. The boulder Baen had me try and lift was nearly off the ground, though I still failed to manage such a task and instead suffered the punishment.

I was slowly growing stronger, and larger, as the days passed. I could hunt for myself, no longer having to try and grab some of the bits from Baen's kills. The largest animal I caught, a small buck, left me with a broken leg. I devoured my kill hungrily before limping back to my master. Master took no pity for my broken leg, instead forced me to live with the pain. I had seen Baen injured, yet Morzan would heal the wound. I was given no such pleasure.

At five months of age, Baen had me eating a special kind of tasteless rock called Blazestone. Though they were hard to swallow and keep down, I realized that by eating these rocks, my fire power was sparked and I managed my first flame on the eleventh day of my fifth month. Baen was hardly impressed by the meager fireball, though I was practically brimming with excitement when I returned to master.

Once I learned to breathe fire, Baen began instructing me how to control the flame and worked to increase my endurance. ___Do not stop now, _he snarled distastefully when I exhaustedly collapsed to the ground. When I made no move, he shot a short fireball at my legs. I hissed in return but didn't rise. ___Keep going, hatchling, or I'll— _

___Do what, Baen? _I finally snapped angrily. ___Burn me? Go ahead. It's not like I haven't had that before. Or perhaps break a leg or two. How original, you ugly snake. _

Bad move. For Baen went into an angry fit, roaring heatedly and grabbing me aggressively. He threw me in the air, shredding me to pieces. He was inches from killing me when Morzan intervened. The moment Baen was out of my line of sight, I passed out from exhaustion and pain.

My head throbbed achingly when I eventually awoke, surprised to find myself at a makeshift camp with my master, Morzan, and Baen snarling in the shadowy forest around us. He did not leave, nor did he come closer, simply stared from the darkness with raged ruby eyes. They narrowed when I started quickly, leaping to my feet in a desperate move. I stifled a roar of pain and collapsed to the ground. My left leg was certainly broken, my right hardly better. I craned my neck back painfully, feeling the bloody scabs stretching, and looked at my wings. Nearly shredded, they clung limply to my shoulders. I winced and glanced at my tail; half of it was missing, a bloody stub marking the new end.

I noticed that master and Morzan were discussing something in quieted tones. Baen was rumbling with anger, growling from amidst the surrounding trees. Night had cloaked the forest, plunging it into near darkness. A small, blazing fire was at the center of our makeshift camp, several bedrolls and packs of provisions nearby. The low sounds of the night buzzed softly in the background, though I was focused on my master's conversation.

"Baen tells me that Shruikan insulted him and was simply disciplining him," Morzan said in a low, accusing voice.

"I will not have that stupid dragon killing mine. He may punish him, not try and kill him," master hissed in a deadly quiet voice. I shuddered at the thought, licking a claw to appear less conspicuous. It appeared that master hadn't noticed that I had awoken.

"Baen is allowed to deal with the hatchling however he pleases," Morzan snarled.

"I will not tolerate Baen trying to kill him!" master suddenly roared. I shivered, backing away slightly. I accidentally stepped upon a branch, the light snapping alerting both Morzan and master of my presence. I shifted uncomfortably under their accusing gazes. Though I was now quite large, I felt dwarfed by the intimidating men and snarling Baen in the shadows.

"Let the hatchling fend for himself," Morzan said threateningly. Master's gaze was locked upon me, obviously considering. There was a certain coldness in his eyes that told me he was about to say yes. I ruffled my wings uneasily, forgetting my injuries. I muffled a cry of pain and looked at him desperately, hoping that he would bid me mercy.

"No." The word was tense, clipped, and allowed no room for argument. I held my breath in anticipation of Morzan's answer, though he seemed too surprised by master's response to do anything.

___You're lucky, stupid hatchling, _Baen hissed to me privately. I shuddered, backing further, clamping my jaws shut tightly to avoid roaring with pain. Master's attention was back to Morzan when I managed to look up, vision blurred slightly. My head swayed with fatigue. I slowly adjusted my front legs before resting my head between them, wary to let my guard down. Baen's deep, hot breaths were near me, sending tingles down my spine. I tried to ignore his proximity and relax, though he crept even closer as I shuddered again.

___Go away, _I begged as his taunts continued.

He snapped his jaws threateningly from the nearby trees and I instantly silenced at the rebuke. My eyes were wide with fear as I heard the soft thudding of his footsteps, master and Morzan unnoticing of his near silent approach. My heart races as I feel his heavy breaths rolling over me, the shuffling of him in the bushes nearby. Too frightened to let my guard down, I lie awake as he waits for me to drift into unawareness.

I don't give him that opportunity, for I was awake long into the next morn when we set off.

My paws were clenched tightly and I shook with rage upon remembering Baen and his horrible lessons. I was snarling unintentionally as that night in particular was resurfaced, the terrifying fear of him that dominated me entirely. I was far too young to be of any threat to him at that time, but another era had drawn my attention and I redirected my thoughts toward it. Relaxing only slightly, I lowered my head back to my paws and closed my blind eyes, remembering.

I was strong enough, now, to take revenge upon my 'teacher', Baen. At nearly three years of age, I was quite large. Baen still towered over me by at least a head, but I was no longer as intimidated by his enormous stature. Instead, I was more concentrated on proving to him that I was the better fighter, as well as to finally have my say in all those torturous months he put me through.

One day, when Baen was 'instructing' me how to immobilize an opponent dragon when we received an urgent mental message from Morzan that told us to return to them immediately. Grateful for a reprieve from Baen's teaching, I eagerly took off and trailed the mental path Morzan had given us to follow. Something seemed amiss as I approached their current standing, an uneasy feel in the air. I shivered slightly but shook off the feeling and surged forward.

___Dragons! _I exclaimed in astonishment as I picked up an entirely different scent from the air. I shuddered and redoubled my pace, fearing that master was in trouble. The smell of foreign dragons was stronger with each flap of my onyx wings, growing closer with each gusts of wind.

After what seemed dreadfully long, I sighted master and Morzan seated comfortably in a clearing with several others. A large turquoise dragon sat beside a tall, dark haired-man nonchalantly, glancing around at the gathered group. A sea-green dragon, shoulders tense and nostrils flaring uneasily, was behind a young, copper-haired woman, whose stance was just as wary. Silver eyes spotted me first as I descended from the shadowed tree tops, their owner cocking his head in thought while another man, this one with rich black hair, gazed up at me.

I landed amidst the circle, my eyes narrowed and teeth bared in a snarl, a rumbling growl filling the clearing. ___Quiet, _master snapped and I sullenly obeyed, my gaze unwavering. The silver appeared to be the eldest of the group, though I was more focused on Baen as he landed, forcefully asserting himself by snapping his jaws at the turquoise. Instead of cowering from the challenge, the turquoise roared in response, white fangs gleaming threateningly.

Baen hissed, claws digging into the earth as he struggled against an unseen force. I wondered for a brief moment if Morzan was involved. A moment later, Baen ghosted over to Morzan's side, gazing at the dragon disdainfully. I opened myself to the other dragons in an attempt to determine whether they were friendly or not. What I received was an outpouring of thoughts as the three dragons conversed, Baen's venomous thoughts leaking into the conversation. Swept away in the maelstrom of indistinguishable phrases, I realized my error belatedly as the three dragons viciously turned their accusations to me.

___. . . Stupid dragon, probably can't even speak. _

___Hey hatchling, what's the matter . . . ? _

___You're such an ugly beast. . . _

___Ha! Some dragon . . . ! _

___Aw, I think we're confusing him. _

___Poor, little hatchling. . . _

___Stop, stop, _I moaned as I tried to pull away from their incessant taunting. Barks of laughter rang out through the link as I withdrew heavily. I staggered to master's side and glared at the three dragons hatefully. ___Master, why are they here? _I asked him warily, my eyes drifting over the group. Master didn't respond, instead glanced over at the snarling Baen and equally vicious turquoise.

"Vrendar, I see you've acquainted yourself well with Baen," master commented sarcastically as the snapping dragons reluctantly silenced. Vrendar growled slightly, master's harsh glare a warning as he slowly quieted. Master strode over to the silver dragon, standing before it with clear authority. The silver was puffing thin clouds of smoke in disapproval.

"Shruikan, quit being so stiff and come greet our ___guests._" I unwillingly followed his command, the silver seeming as displeased as I was as we briefly inclined our heads to one another, stiffly exchanging simple greetings. "Shruikan, you will treat Saedor with respect, as I expect no less of you, Saedor." Bowing my head slightly, I shifted my gaze to the final, sea-green dragon. While Vrendar and Saedor were both males, I could sense that this dragon was female.

"And alas, we have Sitera." I cautiously approached her, though she tensed and snapped her jaws ominously. I growled low and dipped my head in silent acknowledgment, though she was no less tempered. "Now, now, let us not be so aggressive to one another," master admonished. I forced a slight cheeriness into my voice as I greeted her, though she gave no reply. I sighed, frustrated.

___Master, why are they here? _I finally asked again.

"Why are we here?" master said aloud. He laughed cruelly. "Why, we are here to make history. Soon, we shall do what has been deemed 'impossible'. For in only a week's time, we will destroy the riders who betrayed us." Vrendar grinned viciously while Saedor bobbed his head in agreement, growling with eagerness. Sitera's harsh stare was impassive, though I could sense the vengeful desire invoked in her as well. I resisted the urge to sigh, thinking this would just be another mission. I couldn't have been more wrong.

___Vrendar, Saedor, Sitera. _

Their names seemed to awake their spirits for I could almost hear their cruel taunts. ___You never deserved to be a dragon, hatchling, _Vrendar's voice suddenly said. My eyes widened substantially and I could, for a brief moment, feel the turquoise dragon's unwanted presence.

___I hope you're rotting somewhere dark, Vrendar, _I snapped vehemently, though his reply was dark and mysterious.

___Then you rot with me. _His presence vanished, replaced by Saedor's familiar one. ___Hey, hatchling. Having fun? _His voice, to my astonishment, was pleasant and friendly.

___Saedor, _I muttered, and I could hear his light chuckle.

___Death has freed me, Shruikan. I am sorry that you must suffer. Truly, I am. _His presence was genuinely sorrowful and I felt warmth and a slight smile curve my lips.

___All is forgiven, Saedor. I am glad that you are happy. _

___Fate has not abandoned you. Happiness awaits you, Shruikan. All you have to do is take that first step towards it. We watch our own brethren from afar, and you have not been forgotten. Remember that. _

___I shall, _I said softly, surprised by how much death had lightened the cruel weight life seemed to chain him with. With a last, sighing thought, he left.

___I'll be blunt with you when I say that life has not been kind to any of us, you in particular. _

The new, feminine presence of Sitera was, like Saedor's, far kinder than in life.

___Now why does death change you so much? _I mused.

___Death doesn't change us at all. It takes away the burdens of living and allows us to be free. _

I could not deny the wisdom in her words, yet something about them darkened my own mood. Before I could ask more, she had vanished, leaving me alone and feeling rather empty. I sighed deeply, the cold of the room settling into my bones and making me uncomfortable. Even the fire within me could not stave the aching throb developing in my stiff legs.

I was racing Saedor, who was the swiftest of the three, through the snow-capped mountains, tight wings straining against the brisk wind and pushing themselves to their limits. I was panting heavily after nearly an hour of such intense flight, Saedor hardly showing any fatigue. His eyes were impassive and uncaring as he flew forward like a silver sword, slicing through the air gracefully. I was tired of racing him, knowing that it was futile as he was far faster. __

The moment I slowed, Vrendar shot up from beneath me, ramming into my side like a bull. I gasped upon the impact, struggling to regain control over my flight. ___What's the matter, hatchling? _Vrendar hissed disdainfully. Saedor glanced back when he noticed the turquoise dragon.

___Vrendar, you're not— _

___Shut up, Saedor. Besides, this hatchling should be able to fight for himself. _His sneering face was a double insult and I growled menacingly as we hovered before one another. ___Fight me and prove yourself something better than dirt. _

My irritation had morphed into fury when he continued and I suddenly found myself roaring and tackling him mid-air. Our razor-sharp claws tore into each other, digging into the hard flesh of our sides and our vulnerable bellies. He roared and jabbed outward with his head. I was too slow to block the blow, instead taking it impassively and continuing to tear at his side. We were falling through the air, impact imminent if we didn't separate. A mad gleam glinted in his eyes as he locked his claws on my forelegs, dragging me down as he snapped his wings shut. I tried to stay in the air but our combined weight was far too much for my straining wings. At last moment, he rolled and released his claws, swooping back into the air while I crashed into the earthy ground.

A moment later he was back, tearing and slashing at me while I writhed on my back, trying to get up. ___Is this the best you got, hatchling? _he snarled as he tore at me voraciously, bloodying my form. I hissed dangerously, swatting blindly at him. With an enraged roar, I finally managed to regain my footing, circling him as he did me. We bared our teeth and snapped our teeth, our nearly synchronized circling preventing either of us from gaining an opening. At last, he faked an attack to my right side before lashing around when I snapped outward and tearing a bloody claw along my side.

The more blood I lost, the more raged I became. The roughly cut wound gaped lazily on my side, blood flowing out in ruby tides. I struggled to see clearly as my vision abruptly fogged and flashed colors. Instead of collapsing to the ground in defeat, fiery anger consumed me and I lashed outward at him with murder in my eyes. He sidestepped the blow with ease, surging into the air and maneuvering away from my snapping jaws. I thrust myself into the skies as well, following him more by the invisible air trail written in his wake than my poor sight.

Suddenly, my path ended and I swung my head around, vision too blurred to distinguish anything. I cursed bitterly, sniffing the air in vain hope of finding his scent. For a moment, I was dumbfounded, unable to find him and alone. Then, my vision went completely black as I caught the fleetest glimpse of his crimson dyed claw swiping forward, the pain on my face excruciating. Even as I fell through the air, thrashing madly under his grip, I could feel him tearing at me angrily, venting his own rage and displeasure upon my beaten hide. For the second time, I collided with the earth in a monstrous collision. This time, however, merciful darkness overcame me as stars burst before my blind eyes, head spinning. Vrendar's grating, venomous chuckles echoed in my ears as I drifted away from the world.

Remembering Vrendar is much akin to remembering an old injury – formerly forgotten – the moment after you've hurt it again.

I sigh heavily, trying to keep my composure calm and unperturbed by such thoughts. Loneliness ebbs away at me as I blankly stare outward, eyes blind to the world. The amplified darkness only adds to my gloomy mood. I flick my tongue out once more, tasting the air for anything.

I am alone.

As for most hours of the day, solitude is my best friend. I listen and wait for something to happen, though the stiff silence is a suffocating force that smothers everything. I wonder what Galbatorix is doing for a fleeting moment before redirecting my thoughts to the hatchling, Thorn. I almost chuckle at the thought of his rider, Murtagh. Oh how the boy hates me. He would sooner kill me than befriend me, only seeing me when Galbatorix requests his presence and during training. In a sense, I pity the boy, having to put up with Galbatorix for so many hours of the day. Then again, I wallow in self-pity for the same reason.

Speak of the devil, I muse humorlessly as I hear the door open. My ears perk up and I stiffen, tongue flicking out to test the air. Never mind. Not him. The light shuffling of footsteps reaches me as I hear them approach, pausing mere yards before. Their demeanor is that of rigid respect, my blank gaze unwavering despite my temporary blindness. Either they do not notice this handicap or they simply chose to because they remain in place, unmoving. Anxiety and distaste emanate from them as they clear their throat. I wait for them to say something, though empty silence is all I receive.

___Well? _I ask impatiently, my gaze hard despite my unseeing eyes. At first, that same silence meets my ears.

Then: "I need your help."

I learned that Vrendar, Saedor, and Sitera were part of a new group that we formed called the Forsworn. I, apparently, was to be alongside Galbatorix as leader, a title not unnoticed by the other three. Vrendar vehemently resented my newest promotion, though I stiffly accepted his insults and tried to ignore them. Saedor was an impassive observer to Vrendar's rants, watching from beside his rider with something akin to distaste. Sitera, unlike Saedor, took pleasure in making my life as miserable as possible. Her words were said in a witty fashion that enraged Vrendar further, pushing him towards an inevitable fight.

Baen watched with a haughty gaze that challenged Vrendar to attack him from the sidelines as he attacked me viciously. Instead of meeting it, Vrendar was enraptured in tearing me to pieces, and soon Baen was forced to tear him from me when Morzan called for a stop. I panted, glaring up at the turquoise with hatred gleaming in my eyes.

___Hatchling, _Vrendar snarled before taking off with a sweep of his wings, disappearing in an instant.

Vrendar's riders name was a mystery to me, much like his personality. He was distanced and secluded, often vanishing for days at a time. His gaze was always threatening, face locked in a constant snarl. When I caught the two together, they seemed a perfect match with that same bloodthirsty gaze and heartless sneer. Unfortunately, encountering those two together was as dangerous as stepping between two snarling wolves. I never left unharmed.

As weeks passed and I hit another growth spurt, I learned how to fight another dragon. More precisely, three dragons. Vrendar was the most aggressive; his strikes were strong and painful like a bear's. Saedor was quick, his like that of a snake, waiting for the opening before lashing out and pulling back before a response attack could be made.

Baen, as usual, was an ambusher, appearing in the middle of the fight with brutal blows that often forced an air fight to the ground or a ground fight into the air. He then took charge with beating me to a pulp before finally allowing me to flee. ___Coward, _he always called after, echoed by Vrendar. Saedor was the silent one, though secretly I knew he agreed. Hardly fair, for Vrendar alone was nearly twice my size, Saedor hardly smaller. Baen, of course, towered over them both, though he and Vrendar were just as intimidating.

Once I was confident in my own strength, I finally found the courage to try and lash back at them, taking the offensive. Momentary surprise flashed across Vrendar's face as I struck out at him before he dodged quickly and responded with a snap of his jaws. Saedor took advantage of the moment and struck at my exposed left foreleg, nearly catching it before I managed to wrench it out of range. I swore when I felt dagger-like teeth sink into my shoulder, jerking my neck around to find a very smug looking Baen gripping my flesh with unrelenting strength. I roared in his face, blinking in surprise when flames burst from my maw.

The roar Baen unleashed was nothing short of terrifying, startling both Saedor and Vrendar as they watched, frozen, as Baen wheeled back wildly, black smoke trailing his face. We were frozen with shock as we watched Baen, hissing smoky breaths, approach again. His face was scarred with a deep, bleeding wound that crossed from his left temple to the tip of the right side of his jaw. The sight of his pain and blood invoked a new sensation within me. I could feel the darkness, pressed back time after time again by my resolute determination, surge forward, overpowering me. My indigo eyes flashed orange, my lip curling back in a snarl as I faced him.

The last thing I remembered was roaring and sinking my fangs deep into his neck before memories failed me and a trapped demon was finally freed from within me, lashing out with ferocity unseen before.

___With what? _I asked, dreading his answer. Murtagh, the young man before me, shifted on his feet restlessly, obviously uncomfortable in my presence.

___Thorn. _

Fear flooded me and I asked hastily, ___Is he alright? What's wrong? _

I think my concern surprised Murtagh for his stunned silence indicated that he wasn't expecting such a reaction. Finally, he spoke again. ___Can you . . . talk to him? _He asked hesitantly, the request unsettling him.

___Why? _I asked, my voice neither harsh nor kind. Neutral.

___Shruikan, you know I wouldn't ask unless I was desperate, _he said seriously, a grudging hint in his voice upon admitting his weakness. ___He's troubled. He refuses to speak or eat and is simply miserable. Can you just . . . well, I don't know. _

___You want me to see if I can bring him out of this, _I finished for him simply. Though I did not see it, I could almost feel him hang his head.

___Yes, _he replied sheepishly. I sighed deeply, uneasy with my own thoughts. How would I offer any consolation with such a troubled mind myself? I finally decided that Murtagh seemed rather distressed upon his dragon's depression and with that I spoke my answer.

___Can you get him to come here? I'm afraid I cannot leave to him. _

Murtagh seemed utterly relieved that I agreed to his request as he spoke though I praised the boy at how he managed to keep his voice steady. ___I can get him here. I shall be waiting. _

Rage, I realized with a cruel glee, was powerful and devastating. A part of my subconscious praised me while the other stowed itself away silently, disapproving. I ignored that part, instead allowing myself to be consumed by my own fury. I was stronger, fiercer, and almost invincible. Wounds did not hurt, pain did not bother me, and my only desire was to kill my opponent. I almost succeeded on Vrendar one day, coming too close for comfort.

While my fiery rage was a strong asset, it was an equally dangerous enemy. I tried to suppress it but with each time, it grew stronger. I knew that I was falling to it, though my mind seemed to calmly accept this, embracing the idea more interestedly than I would've preferred. The rage was a demon locked inside me that burst forth in my anger, sprouting to my consciousness and claiming my mind and body to its will. I could ill refuse.

___You must control your temper, _Saedor chastised to me one day on a flight, privately broadcasting the thought. ___Or it will destroy you. _

___Come, come, Saedor. It shall make this all the more interesting, _Vrendar sneered, snapping at my neck. I swayed out of the way, low growling rumbling the air as we faced each other.

___Go away, _I snarled.

___Make me. _

And so I lashed out at him, feeling the red haze overcome my vision, bloodlust course through me, murder flashing in my eyes. I hissed venomously before striking forward with a speed that surprised even me for a moment. And with that I grasped his neck in a death embrace, fully intending to kill him. He snapped and tore at me though my anger prevented the pain from affecting me. I was locked onto his neck, unwilling to be tempted or cast away. Flesh compressed beneath my fangs, blood pouring into my rumbling mouth. I savored the taste viciously, crushing his neck further.

And then, the tide turned. Baen, who normally allowed me to wound Vrendar – or vice versa – was suddenly tearing apart our fray, prying my teeth from his neck with a careless yank. My teeth jerked back bloodied as I panted heavily. Baen glared at Vrendar, who was growling and tentatively craning his neck over to stare at me with his own piercing gaze. When Baen's attention drifted towards me, I was unfazed by the anger in his crimson eyes.

___Enough. _

The way he said it was powerful and cold, wrenching me from my raged state. The haze was lifted and my racing heart slowly steadied. I glanced at Vrendar's bleeding neck and nearly frowned, though the lingering anger instead curled my lips into a smug smile. A grating snarl came from Vrendar in response though he was too injured to roar or breathe fire. I smirked successfully, flying back towards master proudly, unconcerned with the other two dragons. Saedor was simply stunned with shock, hovering before Vrendar and Baen with a blank expression.

___That's right; just watch me leave. _

And the entire way back I felt their eyes boring into the back of my head, something akin to awe and fear in them.

___Fear is powerful, _I reflected. ___Hate is deadly. _

It had been three years since Vrendar, Saedor, and Sitera had first appeared. I had grown to an enormous size, my onyx wings stretching to a sizable length. My shoulders were broad, chest hardened, back strong and smooth. I no longer feared or held the slightest of respects towards any of them, instead obeying none but my master's words, and only when he forced me to. I was rebellious and determined to prove myself a fighter, face seeming locked in an eternal snarl.

I noticed that with each month, I grew more vicious and hateful, starting fights more often than engaging in them. I felt the uneasy giddiness of being thrilled with such terrifying rage, determined to kill my opponent. Only another's intervention prevented me from doing such.

One night, amidst the glow of a dark fire, we sat, master rising to stand in front of me while the others stood before their dragons. Baen was shadowed deeply behind Morzan in the eerie light of the fire, fangs gleaming angrily. Vrendar was slightly less intimidating, though his stiff posture suggested his pent up rage. Saedor was rather impassive in his calm stance, Sitera considering in her quiet, moody one.

"Tomorrow, the riders will be destroyed." He paused to let his words sink in before continuing powerfully. "Tomorrow, we will make history." Another pause. "Tomorrow, the world will crumble to our power."

Master spoke with such a fervent determination that I was flooded with eager desire to achieve such a goal. The others seemed to agree for their muttered indistinguishable conversations with one another. Master wasn't finished yet.

"But before we can do such, we must meet those whom will fight with us and create a new world." Then, a rumbling snarl emitted from the nearby trees, followed by the shuffling of branches and leaves. In several thunderous steps, a large, dark violet dragon emerged. The male was an admiring size, his blazing eyes glancing at our group warily. Suddenly, two more dragons appeared, indigo and russet. Another pair then walked forward, orange and scarlet. And another, silver and white. Lastly, a black dragon and an emerald dragon came into sight. Gazing around in concealed awe, I numbered our group: thirteen, not including myself.

"We are the Forsworn," Galbatorix said in a dark voice. "And together we shall rule all." A deafening roar came from the black dragon, nearly shattering my ear drums. Several others joined it, feral bloodlust drowning out their voices. I felt compelled by some wild force, some urge to let my own voice be heard, and so I too roared, an incredible sound of power. With the awesome display of strength, we made ourselves known to the world.

And so, the Forsworn were created.

___A mistake, _I realized. ___The worst of all my errors. _

I sniffed the air curiously, detecting nothing except several rats lurking in the damp walls of the room. ___Vermin, _I thought disgustedly.

I was soaring through fogged clouds, preparing for my descent swiftly. Master was perched on a newly fashioned saddle on my back, wielding a strong-looking, sapphire blade. I watched him slash it in an experimenting swing, satisfaction emanating from him. To my left flew the scarlet dragon, Maer, and to my right, the emerald, Iondur. Maer was stoically calm, her face unreadable in its unchanging expression. Iondur, on the other hand, was nearly bursting with excitement, growling low in anticipation.

___Quiet, _I snarled to him, not tolerating such childish behavior. He snapped his jaws in response, though I simply snorted and flew on, unhindered by his annoyance. Maer seemed equally irritated by his restless growling, the human equivalent of fidgeting, though she chose to ignore it.

Raeli, the dark violet male, scouted ahead of us, merely a speck in the distance. Being the sole wild dragon, he was the most elusive of our group, mood undeterminable at most times. Except when he was angry. Then it was quite clear. His brother, Gaemr, the russet male, was bound to a female rider whose name was unknown to me. Gaemr was rather secluded as well, though his anger was less apparent.

Kamr, the male silver, and Eyrana, the female white, were also siblings, though aside from their similar flying patterns, the two were as different as light from dark. Kamr was wild, Eyrana was cool. Both were fierce fighters, though Kamr seemed stronger at night while his sister seemed to thrive upon the day. From the days of travel I'd spent with them, I'd learned that they shared a rather amusing hatred of one another that led to their close friendship. Aerora, the female indigo, and Syari, the female orange, were sisters, and equally ferocious. I admired their swift attacks, speed challenging Saedor's in their snake-like strikes. Baen was less pleased, though I think his displeasure was more towards the fact that they could beat him in a fight than anything he held against them personally.

Lastly, there was Osiron, the black male. He was the largest of the group, and no doubt the most dangerous. He was strong, sharp, and quick. A fight with him lasted a mere three seconds before the other combatant was pinned to the ground and yelling at him to stop. Osiron had no siblings, and was as close to wild as you could possibly get short of being a wild dragon. His rider was nearly as untamable as he was; an angry male human. We gave him a respectful distance as he flew close to our group's front, right behind Raeli.

The rest of our group had spread out and flew relatively close, though Raeli and Osiron were far ahead of us. Slowly, the rocky crags near Osilon loomed before us, jutting into the sky like a gaping shark's mouth, fog lacing between them. It was ominously still and quiet, though aside from our own rasping wing beats, all was silent. I breathed deeply the watery air, wings sighing along powerfully. We swiftly approached our destination and I could see a large gray mass seated in the distance. ___Bearn, _I thought devilishly. ___Time to die. _

Raeli was hidden by the dense fog, though I could sense his animosity even from such a distance. I suppressed a shiver; I was glad he was on our side. ___Hide behind the clouds and attack from behind, _master commanded me. I nodded slightly, tilting so that I slipped behind a thick group of clouds. I continued flying forward, trusting instinct more than sight to lead me to my target.

I dove through the clouds with ease, tilting again so I angled behind Bearn's position. I dove again, almost there. . .

Bearn's snarling face growled before me, not a foot from my own, rumbling with hot smoke and opening his maw to breathe fire.

I barely managed to duck out of the way from the sudden attack, flame singing my side. ___Mild pain, nothing permanent. Keep going, _I told myself stubbornly. I wheeled around, Bearn's teeth snagging on my right foreleg dangerously. I tore it from his grasp and whacked him with my tail, satisfied with the dull thud accompanying it. Bearn gasped as the wind was knocked from him but instead of falling back, his eyes narrowed and seemed to glow with anger.

In a series of strikes far too fast for me to follow, he had managed to tear my left shoulder, burn both sides, and shred my belly terribly. I could hear my own breath the blood rushing through my ears as I coldly gazed at him. A red haze draped itself over my vision, pain clouding my senses.

I panted, fiery smoke blowing from my flaring nostrils, jabbing outward with my head and slashing with my razor sharp claws. I roared in a challenging manner before ramming into him, my inner demon unleashed. And we fought in the skies, bloodying the ground below with crimson drops as roars erupted around us from the raging fights.

I remember the fight in fragments, brief snatches that could foggily be pieced to make a single scene, as I flew past the members of our group. . .

___Raeli's thunderous roar as he struck down a gold dragon, locking his wings in a dive and pursuing it. . . _

___Baen's hot smoke blowing past me as he scorched another crimson dragon's side, its roar of agony pounding against me. . . _

___Aerora and Syari teaming up against a brown dragon, tearing it from the skies. . . _

___Vrendar, in all his wicked glory, snagging an emerald dragon amidst the chaos and snapping its neck in a sickening crunch. . . _

___Eyrana and Maer fighting an orange dragon on the ground, slashing and jabbing at it ferociously. . . _

___Saedor locked in a fierce grasp with another white dragon, not a single mark on him. . . _

___Sitera attacking a silver dragon from above, locking her wings and plunging them both towards the ground. . . _

___Iondur grappling with a violet dragon, claws digging into the other's side and drawing rivulets of crimson blood. . . _

___Osiron, like a demon risen from the underworld, covered in his enemy's blood, holding a writhing yellow dragon in his poisonous teeth. . . _

I shudder thinking back upon that day, a final scene emerging. . .

___Jabbing outward, feeling the warm flesh of my opponent's neck compress under my pressure, heedless of the brutal blows Bearn dealt me as I continued to sink my fangs deeper. . . _

___The taste of that rich, coppery blood upon my forked tongue, a cruel delicacy as Bearn's rider, Vrael, cried out in dismay. . . _

___Bearn writhing out of my grasp, blazing me with fire that never reached me, shielded by master's spell. . . _

___Exhaustion creeping upon me, dragging me down, my wings too torn to flap. . . _

___But determination rose and I stubbornly gritted my teeth and panted, determined to have my victory, slowly flapping my wings and trailing after him. . . _

___The long pursuit spent in cold, wind, and rain as I followed Bearn's disappearing trail. . . _

___Baen and the others finally catching up as we found Bearn and Vrael. . . _

___Master's cruel trick as he cut down Vrael, Bearn's dying roar echoing harshly against my ears as I smiled wickedly in success. . . _

___And then the world went black. _

___I'm sorry, Bearn, _I apologized to no one in particular. I heard light clicking of claws upon the marble floor, soft breathing rasping in the silent halls. I flicked my tongue out, Thorn's scent wafting towards me. He stopped, I heard, near the edge of the room, soft shuffling as he moved. Then, he settled himself heavily on the ground, unease radiating from every inch of him.

___Thorn, _I greeted neutrally, waiting for him to speak. A soft snort answered me, more shuffling as he shifted. ___What's wrong? _A reluctant grunt answered me. ___I see, _I said in mock consideration. He growled slightly and I resisted the urge to chuckle. ___Will you not say anything? _I asked, being only partially rhetorical. He grunted again. I rolled my eyes, wishing I could see the expression on his face, determine what was wrong. Then again, I could guess what the flat stare he was probably giving me looked like. And so I waited in silence for an answer.

I groaned; a dull throbbing pounding in the back of my head. I stiffly cracked open an eye. ___It's dark, _I observed initially. ___Where's master? _was my next concern and ___my head hurts _was the last. Draping a paw over my eyes painfully, I closed them and attempted to fall back asleep.

"Finally awake," master's voice interrupted. I grunted and shifted my paw slightly, rather confused and disoriented.

___Yes, _I said dully. ___I am. _

___Took you long enough. _Of course, Baen. His ever-cheery mood was just what I needed.

___Hatchling killed Bearn. Impressive. _Saedor. It was almost a compliment.

___So what? _Vrendar, in his agitated mood, growled.

___Now they're in for it. The riders won't stand another day. _Sitera. Hers was rather dark.

"We storm Vroengard tomorrow. We shall destroy the last of the riders, once and for all."

___Ugh, why can't we just rest? _I wanted to protest, though I knew better than to argue with master. Burns, tears, and bruises made themselves known in their constant aching. I suppressed a groan and flicked my weary gaze over to the others.

Night had settled upon the clearing at which our group had congregated. A cracked, rocky bluff loomed on my left side, trees encircling the hardened ground in a ring before melding into dense forest. A campfire blazed in the center of our group, shadowy gleam darkening our faces. Absent from our gathering were Raeli – not surprisingly – and Osiron. The rest formed a semi-circle, backs to the trees and gazes locked upon me. Master and the eleven riders present stood in a circle by the fire, obviously having been discussing something before my awakening.

I could've counted the number of scales on myself faster than the amount of time it was taking for him to answer. This was getting ridiculous. It was not difficult, honestly.

A quiet, almost ashamed, voice interrupted my thoughts abruptly. ___Have you… ever just wanted to escape? _

The question startled for I had entered the thought on numerous occasions, though I had never given it particular importance. I shrugged a shoulder wearily. ___I suppose it has crossed my mind on occasion… why? _

Thorn sighed deeply, hot breath steaming out in a gust of dry air. ___It's just… I don't know. I don't even know why I'm bothering talk to you. _

Ouch. That hurt. I wouldn't let him know that, though. Instead, I said, ___Well, I don't know either, that is, unless you tell me. _

Another sigh. Then, ___I don't like being here, Shruikan. I don't like having to obey the man I despise and watch my rider be whipped into obedience… _

___Neither do I _was the desperate thing I longed to say, but I once again said coolly, ___Well, you're not alone. I'm certain he does not like how you are treated. _

___Galbatorix assigned me to kill Saphira, Shruikan, _Thorn said with a broken voice. ___Tomorrow. _

I was aghast. ___Kill _Saphira? The last hope of the dragon race... what was Galbatorix thinking? ___Are you sure? _I inquired, my voice sounding terribly weak and concerned. I cursed myself bitterly in silence. I could feel his nod.

___Unfortunately. 'Find Saphira and kill her. If her heart is still beating by the time the sun rises again, I shall kill your precious rider.' His exact words. _Thorn hung his head in shame, something that I could feel radiating off him in waves as he forced himself to swallow his pride with each word.

___Don't worry, _I calmed in what I hoped was a soothing voice. ___He can't be serious. _

___But he is, Shruikan. If you had seen him… he wants me to kill her! I can't kill her! It would destroy the dragon race! _A sly smirk curled my lips despite the situation as I commented, ___And because you've fallen in love, haven't you? _

___Yes, _Thorn admitted dreamily. I instantly understood how infatuated he must've been to so quickly admit to such, not even bothering denying the fact. I sighed.

___I'll see what I can do. _

___Thank you, Shruikan. Thank you, _Thorn said softly, bumping my head with his in a rare gesture of simple thanks. I blinked my blind eyes before nudging him in the direction I instinctively knew led to the door.

___Go, _I urged, ___and don't worry about it. I'll handle this. _

And he left, leaving me alone once more. I glanced up at the darkness hopelessly, despairing what I would have to try to do.

Midnight. I think I found some solistice in the darkness of the night, natural, cool, and in a strange sense, beautiful. It eased softly along my wings in brisk black sheets, angling over the shadowed world in a taut sheet of pure darkness. Only master was with me, perched upon my obsidian back with a cruelly regal stance. I longed to throw him off once he reiterated - in agonizing detail - what I had done, as well as the Forsworn, to the dragons. It was awful to hear that retelling, particularly Bearn's cruel demise. I hated myself.

Then, he contacted me abruptly, voice filled with wicked malice. ___Now, Shruikan, the riders have fallen, and we shall rise. _

As much as I hated it, I knew that his words were true. And they burned, to know that I had tasted the blood of my own kin and ___enjoyed _it, ___enjoyed _their screams of pain, ___enjoyed _their desperate attacks that seemed to do nothing. It was a feeling of horror so deep I wondered if I would ever overcome it.

Baen, Saedor, Vrendar, Kamr, Iondur, Aerora, Sitera, Raeli, and myself were the last of the Forsworn. By now, the others had perished, to both other riders hands. Galbatorix had established his kingdom in the city of Illirea, or as he know called it, Uru'baen. I snorted softly at the irony, gliding along the nightly currents with ease.

___Yes, master, _I humbly agreed, hating myself more with each word.

___That's right, Shruikan. I am your master. _

I had no clue that that would be the final time I would stretch my black wings and soar the skies.

___Why? _I asked angrily the moment I sensed Galbatorix enter the room, feeling his smugness. ___Why would you do that? _

___Oh hush, Shruikan. Do you honestly think I would so quickly eliminate my chances for this? No. In fact, I plan to let him worry for a while longer before convincing him to leave and instead attack the gold dragon, Glaedr. _

___You evil little. . . _

But my curses were on deaf ears, for Galbatorix had left. I growled bitterly, settling myself down before sighing.

___Why won't this just end? Why can I not be granted the slightest mercy and just die? _

___Death is not the answer, _a rumbling voice answered knowingly.

___Bearn? _I asked incredulously. I sensed confirmation.

___Correct. Listen to me, Shruikan. What you did of the past was indeed wrong, but there is time to fix that for the future. Do not let it control you. And Baen says that he wishes his son luck, despite everything he did to you, and apologizes. _

Baen, I mused, apologizing. I nearly laughed aloud.

___I don't have much time, but know this Shruikan. Where the darkness and shadows grow, good is always amidst it. You simply have to look for it. _

___How? _

Bearn chuckled amusedly. ___If I simply told you, that would ruin the fun of it, now, wouldn't it? _

___I suppose, _I conceded grudgingly, seeing no joy in the situation. A new strength infused in me and I glanced up, feeling the slight brush of a dragon's hot breath reach me.

___Watch, Strong One, for many things approach. _

And then he was gone.

And the day faded to eve as the shadows grew longer, the night colder, and the room quieter. Yet I felt some sort of kindness and reason in his words, and, with a slightly more eased heart and mind, rested my head on my paws, and closed my eyes and slept.


End file.
